


Two Hearts Replete With Ardour

by VictoriaWoodmaine



Series: Of Consequences and Aftermaths [3]
Category: Sherlock - Fandom, Sherlock Holmes - fandom, bbc - Fandom
Genre: M/M, Post Reichenbach, Re-union
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-29
Updated: 2014-04-20
Packaged: 2017-12-27 23:26:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 31
Words: 60,666
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/984899
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VictoriaWoodmaine/pseuds/VictoriaWoodmaine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is the story of how Sherlock Holmes came back to life and discovered the ardour he and John Watson feel for one another.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Heart of a Soldier

**Author's Note:**

> I do not give permission to repost, reproduce or archive this fanfic in part or in it's entirety to any other website except with prior written consent provided by myself, nor any profit be made from any of these works under any circumstances whatsoever.

 

John Watson awoke with a headache.

Which was to be expected after seven pints of beer on a night out with Mike Stamford.

But then again, it might not have been the alcohol which caused the trouble.

Certainly Doctor Watson was not unaquainted with consuming larger quantities of alcohol, much to his own dismay.

He knows that, taking into account the addictive potential his family holds, he should avoid any recreational substances with the greatest care.

But then again- when you've been to war, nearly died twice in your life and have to put up with a out-of-the-orbit-trying flatmate at times, you turn to the occasional glass of scotch simply to soothe your nerves or to fight back a haunting memory.

On this particular night though, John Watson chose to drink in order to celebrate finally feeling some sort of relief for the first time in months.

The days and weeks, the very hours he had spend thinking the same two-and-a-half minutes over and over, trying to find a clue, see something important he'd overlooked the first seventhousand times he'd thought about it-had been enormously trying.

There's only so much a human mind can endure.

The heart of a soldier.

And John Watson never has been a delicate flower.

He's passionate, smart, determined- what he starts, he will end, no matter how regretable things turned out to be in the end.

Never draw back away from a challenge.

No half measures.

Never give up fighting for what you believe in.

And Doctor John Watson certainly believed in one thing, and one thing only, these days

-Mr Sherlock Holmes.  
  


And even if that particular believe has caused him much pain in this time gone by- he never wavered.

The intensity of his feelings never decreased.

The strength of his determination to hold on to the memories of the one man, that won his heart within seconds of meeting him.

The one man that will always bring a smile to his face when he thinks of the time spent together.

And a frown just a second later for the same reason.

  
Because Sherlock Holmes was not an easy man.

On all accounts.

He was challenge wrapped in human skin.

To be uncovered layer by layer, always finding a new, interesting, trying, admirable and utterly endearing feature.

He was the one thing John had been searching for all his life without even knowing.

 

He had been seeking thrill from a very young age.

Doing wreckless stuff with his sister, getting them both into trouble.

Scratches, sprained joints, broken bones even.

But he had never backed down when things got difficult.

Not when his parents broke apart under the incident with his sister and his uncle, not over the state she is left in ever since.

Not over fleeing into medical school and into the army to find a purpose for himself.

Something -anything that would justify his own existence.

Occupy him and divert him from trying to fix things he could not possibly do himself.

But never running away from his obligations.

His duties.

 

That's who John Watson is.

What he became over the years.

What he shaped himself into.

And that's what made him sacrifice his heart in order to aid the one person, who only by sheer chance- never conciously aware that he'd even done it- had won his trust, his loyalty and his deepest and utmost love.

 

John Watson had never been gay.

Never fancied a man in his life.

Spent years in school and in the army chatting, laughing, fighting with other men, but never acknowledging them in a sexual way.

Never seeing any beauty, any attractive character trade that would shatter his perception of his own sexuality.

Until he did.

He looked.

He saw.

And he finally observed.

  
He clearly wasn't in the mood for polite chatter when he walked past Mike Stamford.

And he desperately tried to maintain a friendly 'what a nice surprise'-face when he was invited to coffee by said man.

And he only so much as thought that it would finally manage to divert his mind from the dark, gloomy thoughts he had gotten so used to ever since he had returned from Afghanistan.

The prospect of his life brought before his eyes every morning upon waking up with an ache in his shoulder and a throbbing pressure in his leg.

He was broken.

Whithout a use.

And once more in his life John Watson had wondered how it had come to all this.

And then he sat upon this bench with his former fellow student and talked about his outlook on living in London any longer.

And in the moment Mike Stamford laughed about his remark who ever would want him for a flatmate, John Watson got confused.

Genuinely confused about why the other man was laughing.

Why he was asking who the other man was, who'd asked Doctor Stamford the same thing on this very same day.

Why he was even contemplating this could ever work out.

Why he was so desperately clinging on to staying in this city.

 

He was confused.

Even more so when he approached the hospital he and Mike had trained in and met this mysterious, rude and arrogant man who'd only so much as given his name and an address after laying bare some of the most personal details about John and then simply dashing away hunting for his riding crop.  
  
The confusion faded within the first night of living with the man.

The curiosity grew stronger and stronger.

The love he felt for Sherlock Holmes sparked, then wavered, dissolved into fumes only to reignite again and again and again over time.

 

Every time that the other man let down his guard in the confines of Baker Street- their home- and offered John a look into his core, his soul, the Doctor fell in love some more.

Because John Watson is no idiot.

He knows what it meant that this man- this impossible creature- opened up to him in his own humble ways, without ever directly exposing anything- had a trust in him and a confidence about his abilities and loyalty that it makes his heart leap every time he comes to think of it.  
  


And all that is the reason why Doctor John Watson could never love any other human being with the intensity he loved Sherlock Holmes.

Because he'd pulled him up and out of the shadows of his own mind.

Pulled him into the darkness of his own troubled character but giving him a new purpose, an aim, something to live for, something to die for when necessary.

Something to devote his entire life to.

And when this man- and his reassurance- where taken away from him by his very own hands, John's world fell apart once more.

Shattered.

His connection to the man lost.

His life-line torn away from him once more.

And he knew that he somehow should have seen it coming.

The thread that tied him and Sherlock Holmes together was so unique, so strong and yet so frail at the same time, that he thought he should have known what was going on in the head of the great detective.  
  
And it took him months to learn how to cope with his loss.

How to carry on.

How to see his own value in this world.

His own importance to other people.

How to live his life without a heart.  
  


But he managed.

Because John Watson never backs away from a challenge.

And this certainly was the greatest he ever endured.  
  


 

So when John Watson awoke this morning with a headache, it was partly because of the alcohol.

But it was also because of the subconcious foreboding that something was going to happen today.

Something he wouldn't like.

As on so many other mornings, when he's woken up in such a state, John Watson prepared for a thow-back.

Another challenge to fight off.

Another moment of despair upon knowing that he now was alone with all this.

Would be for the rest of his life.

And this- this was what cursed him with headaches.

But as usual, the brave doctor got up, helped himself to some breakfast, squared his shoulders despite the ache and stood tall to face whatever problem life had prepared for him today.

Because that's what soldiers do.

They soldier on.


	2. The Anxiety of Everything

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock Holmes is anxious.  
> He has every reason to be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is rather dark and gloomy.  
> Sorry.  
> I'm such a sucker for angst.

When Sherlock Holmes disembarked the aeroplane he was anxious.  
  
A feeling he normally didn't give much attention to.  
  
This time, things were different, though.  
  


 

Mr Sherlock Holmes was on his way home.  
  
To his now one and only genuine home.  
  
Where he had spent many a days sulking, sleeping, secretely smoking altogether while solving crimes and gradually falling in love with his flatmate.  
  


 

And this exactly is the reason why the consulting detective was anxious rather than thrilled with his return to 221b Baker Street.  
  
Because Sherlock Holmes had been dead for the past six months.  
  


 

He had leaped off a roof, hit the ground and bled onto the pavement all in front of his very loyal and then very devastated flatmate.  
  
And Sherlock Holmes had no idea what would expect him once he returned.  
  
And that was something that the good detective loathed with great passion.  
  
Uncertainty.  
  
  


Ever since Sherlock was a young lad, he had devoured knowledge, information, facts, details.  
  
One would assume he simply was a very bright kid, supported in his thirst for education by given a trust fund and being sent to boarding school.  
  


 

But there is more behind it.  
  
The reason why he was so keen on gaining knowledge was not because it was any fun to him- it was to soothe his greatest fear.  
  
His fear to lose control.  
  


 

Because Sherlock Holmes had been born an exceptionally intelligent child, just like his brother before him.  
  
That itself wouldn't be a concern in the eyes of a parent.  
  
The crux was that young Mr Holmes never knew where his limits or boundaries were.  
  


 

Always dashing forward, head first into the adventure, the chase, the trouble he so often not only risked his life in the name of science, he also tried to prove to himself that his

fears, the insecurities he felt, the gap that separated him from other people- ordinary people, could be overcome if he only tried hard enough.  
  


 

He was intelligent, yes.  
  
But sometimes that is not an advantage.  
  
Because if you are too aware of your surroundings, too observant of the looks other people give you, too aware of your own faults- you can't escape yourself.  
  
You cannot escape the power of your own mind.  
  


 

And so Sherlock Holmes tried.  
  
He tried so desperately that whenever he succeeded- thought he'd done exceptionally well this day- he'd run up to his brother, his mother, his nanny.  
  
But only rarely to his father.  
  


Because Nigel Holmes was a busy man.  
  
A member of the british government and so engulfed in his work, that Sherlock clearly knew where his own determination and dedication to science came from.  
  


 

So when a young Sherlock Holmes got the chance to spent time with his father, it was always a match of giants.  
  
Because Sherlock had no trouble in conversing with his dad like an adult even at the age of barely seven.  
  
And when he was asked by his mother to address his father to come down for dinner he eagerly obliged, naturally.  
  
He lept up the stairs to his fathers office, knocked politely as he was told, waited the obligatory three seconds before he gently turned the handle and slowly opened the door.  
  


 

And this was the moment Sherlock Holmes learned a very important lesson of life:  
  
He hated surprises. 

Unexpected things.  
  


 

Because what he'd expected had been his father sitting at his desk, quietly scribbling with his pen onto another top secret document he kept hidden from his family in a safe (much to Sherlock's frustration).  
  


 

What he did not expect was his father lying face down with his head resting on said documents and blood spreading over the wood of his secretary desk in thick ribbons.  
  


 

This was the moment that Sherlock Holmes decided that he would never risk to feel anything- for any other person- again.  
  
Because the devastation, the agony, the sheer terror that rippled through his tiny, seven-year-old body was too much for him to cope with.  
  
A choked cry had escaped his lips- that much he remembered.  
  
And that he'd turned and ran away was obvious for he found himself falling down the stairs halfway down and thereby breaking his shin.  
  
But the fact that not even that kept him from getting up and running on, crying out in desperation, yelling for his mummy, his nanny, his brother says much about the impact this sight had on the smart child.

And the fact that Sherlock Holmes, with his exceptionally bright mind, to this day remembers the exact pattern the blood stains had formed on the wall behind his father's desk speaks volumes about the trauma he has experienced.  
  


 

Sherlock Holmes never forgets anything.

He simply can't.

He might claim that he only keeps the knowledge that is relevant to his work, that his mental hard drive needs maintenance and therefore he deletes any unnecessary information regularly.

But the truth is, Sherlock simply crams these things into a special room of his mind palace.

A storage room with an iron-clad door and a big heavy chain securing the lock.

In this room he keeps his soul.

And all the things that are a weakness in his eyes.

His weaknesses.

And he knows that this exactly is not very healthy behaviour.

He is very much aware of those faults he has developed.

Or the ones he was born with.

There's nothing to be considered normal about him.  
  


 

So can anyone blame him for deciding not to invest even the slightest bit of emotion into anything apart from his work?

His work was everything to him.

His breath, his nutrition, his drug.

As long as the work kept him occupied no troubling thoughts could erupt from deep down out of his subconcious.

No haunting memories could cross his mind if he'd focus all of his capacities onto the one thing he craved the most: the comfort of scientific facts.

Because knowledge never leaves you, knowledge cannot die.

You might forget some facts, but they are never really lost.

Always stored somewhere in a backup of your mind palace.

Knowledge doesn't hurt your feelings.

It won't disappoint you.

It won't judge you for who you are.

It won't ask you stupid questions about your dreams or ask you to draw a picture of what you felt.

It won't hurt you.

Knowledge won't ever do you harm.

 

So Sherlock Holmes gave his heart, dedicated all the love and passion that he could give to his work.

Engaged himself in his studies and got married to his own profession of solving crimes.

 

And that's another thing that probably speaks volumes about who Sherlock Holmes is deep down inside.

He has the mind of a scientist and a philosopher- but he chose to solve crimes.

Puzzles of violence and pain, stained by the blood of agony and covered in the ashes of desperation.  
  


 

Psychiatrists would say that clearly this was his way to compensate trauma.

That the impact it had had, led him to try and solve any crime he could ever find (and deemed worth his efforts) because he tried to prove to himself that the state of helplessness his juvenile self had gone through- once leaving him utterly sad and desperate, was now no more affecting him.  
  
They'd say that he tried to set the record straight and avenge and make up for the one crime he would never be able to solve.  
  
Because suicide never makes much sense to those left behind.  
  
They'd also say that his daily work had to remind him of his father's death again and again.  
  
And that maybe he tried to make up for some things he'd done later in his life- seeking relief in the throes of substances he'd sometimes even mixed himself, with the use of his broad knowledge of chemistry.  
  
His destructive behaviour sometimes seeping through his carefully build up armour of disregard- it was in those moments where he just couldn't take any more of it.

Where he was simply too exhausted to keep himself toghether and allowed himself to be utterly human- and thereby appearing far from normal.  
  


 

He used to fear those moments.

Of course he did.

No one wants to acknowledge their weaknesses.

But he was taught that he wasn't alone with them.

That they made him no lesser person.

That he should be proud of what they'd done to shape him into the man he was today.  
  


 

The man who'd taught him all of this, was the man who'd never stopped believing in him.

Who'd never given up to try and give him wings and show him that even when he was vicious, mean and hurt other people around him- he had one person he could always rely on, one man who'd always be there to catch him when he fell.

One man who'd always be the definition of home for Sherlock Holmes, wherever he was.  
  


 

And that's why now, crossing terminal one of Heathrow Airport, Sherlock Holmes felt anxious.  
  
Because he had died trying to protect this man.

Home.

The person he would trust with the key to his iron clad door if only he could ever forgive him.  
  


He knew that he had hurt him.

Broken him.

Thrown him back years in his own recovery from trauma.

That he'd broken his trust lying to him.

Leaving him alone when he knew he'd need him most.

Breaking whatever it was that somehow so deeply connected them and not knowing if he'd ever be able to fix it.  
  


 

So the consulting detective had every reason to be anxious.

Terrified even.

Fearing he had destroyed the only thing that ever mattered to him now more than his work.  
  


 

That's the reason why Sherlock Holmes was truly anxious.

Because he was afraid that he would not be able to return to his haven of comfort and safety.  
  


To everything John Watson had once offered him.  
  


To everything John Watson meant to him.  
  


To everything about John Watson he had fallen in love with.


	3. An unexpected tragedy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John gets a call from Lestrade.  
> An accident has happened. A Holmes was admitted to hospital.  
> John is right behind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know it's not much, but I'm busy knitting.  
> Yeah, exactly.  
> But it's a 221b hat. A second one.  
> So I dare you to judge me :)
> 
> Also, you may have noticed the chapter title being a reference to the hobbit. Yeah, couldn't resist.  
> And yeah, I'm actually not a big shipper of Mystrade (as I haven't read any slash yet) but I think they both deserve someone in their lives and I always see Mycroft standing in the doorway, a frown upon his face and saying 'Gregory' and then playing with his umbrella shyly.  
> That's my precious mental image of them.

 

 

 

Doctor John Watson was busy contemplating whether or not he should get another coffee.

He'd already had two (and a cup of strong PG tips with his breakfast) but his persistent headache just wouldn't go away.

When he finally made up his mind to try a combination of aspirin and Mrs Hudson's finest (and by far sweetest) baked goods- her legendary mince pies- his phone rang.  


Which was odd.

 

Normal people called the Baker Street phone.

Actually very few people even had his mobile number.  


His sister.

Mrs Hudson.

Greg.

Sarah.  


 

Sherlock.  


 

A pang of guilt.

Heartache.

_Get yourself together, Watson._

_You're being childish._

_He's not going to call you from below the grave._

_No matter how desperately you wish._

_Or pray._

 

  
Mildy curious and a little bit confused about who would call him at half past ten, he fished around in his pocket until he got hold of the vibrating little device.  
  
He still smirked sheepishly at it whenever he caught a glimpse of its backside, remembering Sherlock's first brilliant deduction he witnessed.

How he'd taken him along the route of his reasoning and showed him what incredible powers he posessed.

Or rather they posessed him and he only tamed them to serve him.  


 

The ten-second loop of the ringtone started anew and John was torn from the cozy feelings his memory gave him, back into reality.

The dull, sterile monotony that his life had become once again and that he tried to battle through every day.  
  
He squeezed his eyes shut for a second, chasing the fog of longing away and answered the phone.  


 

What John did expect upon waking up that morning was that the strange foreboding feeling he had had would lead to him being confronted with something unpleasant.

So much he had braced himself for.  
  
What he did not expect was that a single phone call could make his life get even worse.

Much worse.  


\-----------------------------------------------------------

  
When John Watson pressed the 'disconnect' button, his left hand was trembling once more.

Not the usual

_I-got-shot-in-the-bloody-shoulder-and-this-is-what-my-nerves-make-of-it_ -tremor.

Nor the

_I-am-so-stupidly-idle-I-think-I'll-combust_ -tremor.

Or the

_My-stupid-git-of-a-flatmate-hit-me-right-in-that-shoulder_ -tremor

(the only one he utterly missed).  


It was a real, genuine tremor of shock.

Of learning about something, which is so upsetting that your brain can't comprehend it and floods your system with so much adrenalin in order to maintain your fight-or-flight-reflex if needed, that your muscles just can't stop moving.  


A feeling he hadn't actually missed.

John stood in the middle of 221b's sitting room and asked himself why.

Just that.

Why?

Why the bloody fuck why?

Why the other one, too?

What was it about this family that made them so attractive to all the drama in the world?  
  
Why?

 

He frowned.

This didn't make sense.

But then again, nothing of this made sense.

His entire life didn't make sense anymore.

Not before and not now.

 

He blinked once.

Twice.

Took a deep breath.

_Okay, Watson._

_Soldier-mode._

_This is a crisis._

_But this is nothing you're not already used to._   
  
_Next move: _

_-_ **_Jacket_ **

**_-Cab_ **

**_-Hospital_ **

_So far so easy._

_Prepare yourself for: _

_**-Greg Lestrade in despair** _

_**-tears** _

_**-potential threat of death** _

 

_Things you can do about the situation: _

_- **remain calm**_

_**-reassurance and comfort for Greg** _

_**-inquire about the status of the patient** _

 

_Things you can do nothing about: _

_- **the death of Mycroft Holmes**_

_**-the agony that follows** _

__

_Plan for defense against attack: _

_- **unclear.**_   


 

What Doctor Watson did next was square his shoulders, get his jacket from the hook behind the sitting room door and dash down the stairs.


	4. Pain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pain.  
> A multidimensional feeling.  
> Something Sherlock Holmes was not unfamiliar with.  
> He had experienced pain previously.  
> But never before to such an extend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so I know that this is dark. Very dark. And it won't get much brighter for a while I'm afraid.  
> There are big parts of my headcanon in here (of course?) like Sherlocks suicide attempt or the reason why he keeps and cares for his homeless network.
> 
> AS A WARNING: there are mentions of drug use, a suicide attempt, overdosing and serious injuries after an accident! If this triggers you, then you better not read it! You can continue with the next chapter and still keep up.

 

 

 

Pain.

A multidimensional feeling.

Something Sherlock Holmes was not unfamiliar with.

He'd experienced the many faces of it on several timepoints of his life.

Wether it was physical pain from an injury as a child- a scratch, a tear, a broken bone when he had been too enthusiastic in his playing and exploring.

The psychological variant where he had desperately tried to numb the cries and whispers of his own demons.

The combination of the two forms when he went through rehab (by his own will) and then another time, after he'd failed and was forcefully dragged back by his brother for another go.

A much more desperate attempt at curing him off his addiction.

The pain of rejection, loss, betrayal, disappointment- all the emotions one goes through growing up- and many more that he experienced due to his exceptional nature of perception and thinking.

Then, most recently, heartbreak.

A full on form of agony he'd never thought he could possibly feel with his numbed, analytical heart.

Despair.

Yes, he'd felt that before.

Once.

He couldn't actually remember the exact reason but so much he knew: he'd been high as a kite at the time.

And that was probably both the cause and the solution of whatever problem he'd thought he had at the time.

All this had made Sherlock Holmes into the man he was today.

And he was proud of who he was.

What he'd achieved.

Maybe not always proud of his methods.

Most recently he was definately not happy with the actions that he'd had to take, but they lead him here.

To this point in space and time where he thought he'd finally find happiness (after a considerable amount of repeated apologies, trying to extenuate the situation and buying milk, trying to show he had improved his manners).

He expected that for once life and his own emotions would play into his hands and be in favour of him.

What he did not expect was that, 15 minutes after he'd entered the backseat of one of his brother's cars, a lorry would crash right into his side of the vehicle.

Sherlock Holmes had experienced pain previously.

But never before to such an extend.

 

Sherlock Holmes rarely allowed himself to go to the silly utopia of a daydream.

Not anymore.

He used to do so a lot as a child- dreaming of being a mighty pirate captain who was feared by his enemies and admired by his crew for his bravery and wit.

He continued to do so once he realised that he'd probably never have a single real friend.

So he'd imagined some.

Which lead to people asking questions, others staring at him even more irritated because they saw him talking to himself once again.

It all lead up to his mother- in her desperation and confusion, still miserably coping with the loss of her husband- sending him to therapists and child psychiatrists.

None of that actually helped.

More so it only made him hide those moments better.

They became his precious, little islands of comfort in the everyday turmoil of his life.

Until they weren't enough to soothe his increasingly strained nerves.

The older he got, the more Sherlock Holmes became aware that everything he was, everything about himself that he believed in, took pride in- were the things that made other people think he was mad.

The things that scared people off.

And this is when he reached the point of no return for him, the moment in his life that he remembers with such clarity that it scares him, because the emotions are still so strong, he fears they might consume him once more if he dwelled on them for too long.

It is the moment where Sherlock simply gave up caring about the world around him.

So much, that he didn't care about his state of dress, the way he responded to everyday situations, the way he behaved in public.

Until his brother had snatched him off the street, before he could make up his mind to sleep on the pavement for another night because he was too high or too aware to know that he'd never be allowed to set foot into his childhood home in such a state.

Or maybe because he was too ashamed.

It was Mycroft who knew his brother better than Sherlock did himself once again and so he dragged him in front of his mother's eyes.

Exposed him, stripped him of his defenses, his excuses and left him bare and vulnerable to the scrutiny of his mother's shocked stare and her tears of disappointment.

She'd blamed herself.

Failing her youngest when he had been the one requiring most of her love.

Mycroft had always been the good boy.

A replicate of his father in mind and manners he had always known when to step back and give room to his baby brother.

Always known that Sherlock, his little Sherlock was so much more, so much more than he could ever imagine.

Both in good and bad.

 

So when he showed to him who he currently was and who he could be in the future, if only he'd tried hard enough, Sherlock agreed to get clean.

He'd tried.

He really had.

But even in the institution they had brought him, the very place where all the nutters and madhatters with an addiction ended, he was surrounded by idiots who didn't understand.

They'd stared at him with the same disbelieving, disapproving eyes he'd seen before so many times until he couldn't stay there any longer.

He fled.

And returned to the street.

Once more too ashamed and too proud to admit his failure until even Mycroft didn't come to check on him anymore.

What his older brother intended- by showing Sherlock the cold shoulder- was, that he would realise how much he needed the comfort and support of his own family and that he had to become clean by his own free will, his own motivation and strength because he could not possibly dare to disappoint the last two people on earth who still loved him and cared about him.

Unfortunately, as Sherlock could at times be spectacularly ignorant of the way his own emotions worked, he completely misunderstood.

The rational explanation, and that was the only tolerated way of thinking for Sherlock Holmes, was that they had abandoned him.

His despair and regret, the power with which he loathed his own self, was so utterly overwhelming, sitting on the pavement of Trafalgar Square in the cliché of a rainy night, that he made a fatal decision.

Once more Sherlock Holmes found himself at a turning point in his life and this time he had lost almost every faith he ever posessed.

 

Loading the syringe was always a liberating feeling.

As if by injecting the substance he could grow wings and take flight to wherever his weary heart desired.

He knew that those wings were only an illusion.

Something his receptors created to keep him going for more.

That those pleasant sensations only lasted until he got too close to the sun and his wings would dissolve in the heat of it like Icarus' had done before him.

Sherlock Holmes was very aware of that.

Chemistry was the one true science for him, the one that ruled all others.

So he knew.

He knew exactly what would happen, but he simply didn't care as he loaded the syringe with a dosage he'd never dared to try before.

Because this time he didn't intend to land safely on the ground.

He wanted to get as close to the sun as possible and that she might, if ever she possessed any mercy, take him in, consume him, burn his wings and every single feather of his existence to finally set him free and give him the salvation he had been seeking for so long.

 

It had been the night of the overdose.

The night where one of his street fellows became his guardian angel.

He never learned who the man (or woman) was who had found him, lying face down and covered in sick, and dragged him to the closest shop, begging for an ambulance.

He woke up in a hospital bed with tubes and needles attached to him, feeling sore and drained and so full of pain- shock, sadness, shame, and dread upon seeing his mother being held by Mycroft, crying her eyes out over the disappointment her youngest son had once more brought over the family.

The look in her eyes still gives him shivers to this day and it was this moment where Sherlock Holmes finally made up his mind.

Thirty-three years of age but so much wiser- so much wiser now than anyone else, that it was easy going through rehab for the second time.

His family never visited again after that one occasion where he'd initially woken up from coma.

They abandoned him- for real.

And this time, Sherlock understood what they were trying to achieve.

And it helped.

It really helped him, for he found a strength inside of him, he hadn't been aware he posessed, but which raised him up and gave him wings and taught him that indeed he could fly- he was very capable of flying without any recreational help.

The abilities of one Sherlock Holmes, if unaddled and utterly focused were so much more powerful, gave him such satisfaction, than any drug could ever do.

 

As Sherlock Holmes sat in the backseat of his brother's Jaguar, he'd once more daydreamed.

About a time and place so close and yet so far out of reach.

As he'd stared out of the window his subconcious registered the lights coming closer.

Too close and too fast.

But by the time he'd left his dreaming state, reality hit him- far too literally.

 

Pain.

A sensation bearing many faces.

One is called acute somatic trauma.

It's the one you feel when skin is ripped to shreds, muscles are torn apart and bones break to pieces.

It's the ultimate state of agony for one to endure and your brain tries desperately to work against it.

Keep the damage as small as possible, constrict blood vessels to slow down blood loss, increase the pressure, pump adrenaline into every last capillary, trying to numb the electric shocks ripping from nerve cell to nerve cell.

Nociceptor to Nociceptor.

Increase heart rate and diaphragm motion to improve oxygen intake and keep as much of the system going and working as possible.

And then- if the damage is too severe, the effort to keep the systems from failing is so big that it brings the central organ of functionality to its very knees- then your body shuts down, your brain gives up under the constant fire of sensational input.

Your consciousness slips away from you, like water through your fingers.

No matter how desperately you cling on to it.

There is a point of no return for every system.

 

This is where Sherlock Holmes found himself like a puppet with cut strings, only being held upright by the force of his own saftey belt and too numb to realize how damaged his body actually was, for he was on the very brink of fainting.

The few seconds he knew he had left in consciousness, he spent entirely and intensly with the one person that had inhabited his daydreams for months now.

And that he wished were by his side right now.

To help him.

His doctor.

His flatmate.

His friend.

The only person he would ever love.

 

_John._


	5. The Sound of Rain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's raining.  
> John's inner voice repeated this particular detail again and again like a broken record.  
> It's raining.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm in London with the wonderful Atlin Merrick and we are spending the morning writing as it's raining and I'm yet too lazy to get out.  
> This is the result.

 

 

 _It's raining._  
  
John's inner voice repeated this particular detail again and again like a broken record.  
  
 _It's raining._  
  
As he jogged through the entrance doors of the hospital, pushing past people and detouring around medical equipment and beds being rolled along the corridors of the A &E, his mind was utterly focused.

And then again- not at all.  
  


He was focused in his attempt to get to the center of the crisis as fast as possible.

But what he was going to do once he was there- he had no idea.  
  
Because actually- there was nothing he could do, not about the patient himself, only about trying to comfort Greg.  
  


He had sounded so broken being on the phone. 

_'Mycroft's had an accident.'_

 

So scared. 

_'They won't tell me anything because I'm not family.'_

 

So lost. 

_'I don't know what to do, John.'_

 

He had sounded just the way John knew _he_ must have sounded to _him_ when he had called him from the pavement in front of Bart's.

The confusion and disbelief in his voice being the thing that really made his blood freeze in his veins.

 

  
Greg was afraid.

He was terrified.

So lost in his helplessness, that when John turned the corner and finally found him his heart skipped several beats with the overwhelming feeling of being able to relate.

He knew exactly how Greg must feel like right now.

 **No.**

Greg probably felt worse than he had.

Because for him there had been the tortuous comfort of certainty.

It might kill you, the agony, the pain, the shrieking voice in your head screaming 'NO', never stopping, ever growing louder and louder until your almost deaf for any other sound than your own misery- but at least your emotions run in one direction only.

What Greg was going through right now, was the rollercoaster of horror.

The disbelief, the denial, the paralyzing fear of what might be, the tiny glimmer of hope that everything will turn out to be fine in the end, the wave of cold as your own subconscious reminds you that it might just all fall apart in front of your eyes.

And there's nothing you can do.

Your emotions are all over the place.

Spinning round and round, you are torn from side to side, from light to darkness and everytime you turn away from the warmth of hope, the abyss of depair is wider and colder and you are falling deeper and deeper but never hitting the ground.

There is no end to misery.

There's only so much as learning how to paint the walls of that dungeon you are caught in with pleasant memories of times gone by and moments yet to come.  
  


 

So when John Watson saw the desperate pacing of Gregory Gavin Lestrade, his heart sank but at the same time his doctor's and soldier's instinct kicked in without him even consciously deciding for it to happen.

He approached the shaking man, grasped him by the arm and pulled him into a hug.

He feared that the gesture might induce tears- pull the man down into the abyss completely, but sometimes that is necessary.

_Give him one thing to concentrate on- even if it may seem cruel._

 

But in a crisis human beings tend to be so helpless, being overwhelmed by conflicting emotions.

They just do not know what direction to follow.

So giving him a thing to do, to occupy himself with, as he himself was trying to figure out how he could help- it seemed the kind thing to do.

Of course you feel bad leaving your friend crying.

Seeing a grown man so broken and out of his wit is an atrocious sight to witness.

But really, John's not even good at comforting himself when he needs to.

How is he supposed to help anyone else?

People always assume that Doctor John Watson knows what to do.

And that might be true when it comes to injuries, attacks, mortal danger.

Things that are physical, real.

Things you can see, smell and touch.

But emotions...

John's not an expert on those in the least.

He doesn't know why people expect him to be. 

 

_'He's a doctor, he must know about these things._

_He's supposed to make you feel better, physically and mentally._

_He's supposed to reassure you that everythings going to be fine in the end.'_

 

But he isn't.

He knows how the human anatomy works, what to do in case of an infection, a broken bone, a gun wound.

He's a surgeon, he might cut you open and place his fingers onto and inside parts of you no one is supposed to touch.

He has healing hands, indeed.

Those hands might be soft and gentle, loving and strong when they need to be.

But those hands need something to grasp, something to touch and hold to start working.

Working to heal.

So why people see in him a man of emotions he doesn't really understand.

Sure, he is compassionate and polite, tries to make people smile, even when he himself feels the exact opposite way.

John Watson tries to make people better.

Because it makes him feel good.

Because it diverts him from dwelling on his own emotions for too long.

Now more than ever.  
  


 

When he placed Greg Lestrade on a chair along the corridor, dashing off to inquire about Mycroft's status, he did it because he had no clue what else to do.

He didn't know what words might help his friend now.

He certainly wouldn't repeat the one's that had been addressed to him for the last six months now.

Because he knows that there are no words, no phrases, nothing that could really comfort you in such a situation, except for the definite proof that it will be alright, it will be fine and it will go back to normal. 

A doctor, in all his glory and authority, telling you that you need not worry anymore.

Just be patient.

It will take a  few hours, days, weeks.

Words that John had wished he could have heard, held onto and put all his hope and energy in.

But never got the chance to.

Words John knew were so necessary to Greg now, so essential, that he wanted to be the one to deliver them.

Because if it's a doctor and a friend who says them, they become even more real.

Reliable.

True.

And if it were the words that will shatter your entire world it's best they are delivered by someone you trust and not a detached, distant physician that will dash away to the next tragedy as soon as he shut his mouth or you start crying.

A true friend will then hold you, and stroke your back, put a hand on your head, hold you close and just let you be.

Be miserable.

Be desperate.

But he will be the one to hold you upright.

He will be the hand you reach for from down the abbyss.

And Greg certainly had been that to John.

 

 

He left Greg behind- regretting that he literally had to turn his back on his friend and approached the desk of the nurse in charge.

He was halfway there when a sound reached his ear that made him stop dead in the middle of his step.

 

_Not._

_Possible._

 

_Absolutely._

_Not._

_Possible._

 

But he heard it again.

And then Greg's loud intake of breath.

The fraction of a second that it took for the other man to realise what was going on and then leap out of the chair and then stumble towards the source of the sound on unsteady feet.

John's brain went mute.

Still.

Like an engine violently stopped.

He couldn't get his muscles to make him turn around and see.

But he didn't need to.

He heard the voice of his friend repeatedly saying the name of his dead love's brother.

And he heard the smooth and warm baritone of said brother replying with a confused litany of ' _Gregory. Oh, Gregory_ ' accompanied by the sound of arms being slung around one another and clothing shuffling in the course of an embrace.

John's ears were hypersensitive to every single sound in the building and when the doors of the A&E opened he even heard the ones from outside.

The rush of cars, people chattering, noises of desperation and pain as new patients entered those doors.

But most of all, one particular sound reached John's ear.

So mundane and unimportant in this situation, but still meaning the world to him as they gave him at least a little bit of normality as everything else fell to dust.  
  


The sound of rain.  
  


_It's raining._  
  



	6. Please, God.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Standing in the middle of the A&E of St.Mary's Hospital, frozen in motion but acutely aware of every little sound and motion around him, John Watson finally and utterly resignated.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaand we continue the drama.  
> I really should take up acting.  
> If I can do half as much with my face than I can do with my thoughts then I'm in for a fucking BAFTA.  
> Or maybe not.  
> Maybe I'm just horrible.

 

 

 

How life had once more taken the cruelest possible turn, John Watson had no idea.  
  
Standing in the middle of the A&E of St.Mary's Hospital, frozen in motion but acutely aware of every little sound and motion around him, John Watson finally and utterly resignated.  
  
Resigned to his own feelings and the oppression of keeping up a facade, a mask he had worn for far too long.  
  
Doctor John Hamish Watson, M.D, former Captain of the fifth Northumberland Fusiliers is a soldier and a medical man through and through.

He's strong and brave when it is expected of him.

He can act in a dangerous, urgent situation of medical emergency with the utmost focus and calm.

He can be your rock in the stormy sea of everyday life.  
  
But right now- in this moment, John Watson is tired.

So tired of being the strong one, the cheery one, the reliable one, that makes people feel better no matter how it makes him feel.

He's tired of people never asking if he was alright, not until they know what has happened to him six months ago, or he finally allows himself to drop the mask of nonchalance for a second.

Just a tiny second.  
  
John Watson craves to be allowed to show weakness.

Because weakness is what dominates his life lately if you'd ask him.

He doesn't see it as something bad, something he'd need to feel ashamed of.

He sees it as a sort of relief that he's been denied for so long now.  
  
Because what do you do, when you know that the one thing that could make you feel better is the reason for your misery in the first place?

What do you do, when the comforting voice, the gentle touch you long for right in this moment- being the only possible thing to calm your exhausted nerves and give you peace enough to breathe easy- is the thing that makes your heart so weary, so heavy, so cold, so tired, that all you'd ever wish for now is the mercy of being allowed to lay down, close your eyes and just cease to be.  
  
The human mind, and that being the place we consider our emotional heart to be, can endure a surprising amount of terror, agony or dread.

Clearly, every human being is different in their individual strength, but still, what we can make ourselves survive through with only the relentless power of a fond memory, the bittersweet remembrence of happy times gone by is astounding.

A human being can go on for days and weeks and months and years fueled by as little as the believe that once, the world was a better place and the time was right and maybe, just maybe the clocks will turn once more and the light will come back, breaking through the shadows that keep us imprisioned right at this moment.  


_Please God, let me live._

 

John Watson had thought this on one particular occasion in his life and only once.

At a time where he had felt what it meant to be on the brink of death.

To feel such utter agony that no painkiller, no therapy, no other possible relief could fight down the panic inside of your own head.

You know when it's too much.

You know when you went too far.

You know when you have reached the point of no return and yet you cling on to life with a desperation so powerful, so strong that it can mute the screams in your head, it can stop your muscles from shaking, it can make you breathe in a steady rhythm, it can make you feel strong enough to survive this.  
  
Back then he would not have believed that he would make it.

And he would not have, in his wildest dreams, thought that in a not too distant future he would think this particular thought once more, but not for himself, but for the person he had, by now, fallen in love with, devoted his whole life and happiness to and who had left him in such a devastating manner, far too soon, that now he did not possibly know how he could go back to live the life that he had had before him.  


_Please God, let him live._

 

  
Like an engine roaring back to life, John Watson's heart and mind regained their focus.

He didn't even consciously have to think it through- the deduction had found it's way into his subconscious so naturally, he had learned from the master in the end- that if Lestrade had got a phonecall telling him 'a Mr Holmes' had been injured in an accident and it couldn't possibly be Mycroft for he was standing right there, in all his posh glory, umbrella et al., there was only one other explanation that fit all the facts.  
  
A Holmes.

Sherlock.

An accident.

Life.

And quite possibly death.

Again.  


_Please God._

_Let him live._


	7. In.Out.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It took him three steps to reach Greg.  
> A fracture of a second to wrap his arms around his neck and bury his face in his comrades shoulder.  
> An eternity to finally find the strength to capitulate and give in to his emotions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't think I'm nuts for the writing style seems a bit odd, but I think in this situation everyone would shut down into their core and have some form of panic wave through their body. I learned about the 20sec technique to fight it and for me it works quite well, so...  
> Yeah, London weather is dreadful as is the situation for John.  
> Poor, John.  
> I'm so sorry.  
> I promise it will get better soon.

 

 

 

In.

Out.

In.

Out.

In.

Out.

_Focus._

In.

Out.

In.

Out.

_What's the next move?_

In.

Out.

In.

Out.

_Where do I start?_

In.

Out.

In.

Out.

_Right._

_Move._

_Blink._

_Concentrate._

In.

Out.

_Breathe, John._

_Fight down the panic._

_Count down from 20._

_Give the panic 20 seconds to bloom to its full extent._

_And then destroy it._

In.

Out.

_20._

In.

Out.

_19._

In.

Out.

_18._

In.

Out.

 

_'John?'_

 

In.

_Turn._

_Face that voice._

_Distraction._

_Good._

_You are not alone._

_These are your friends._

Out.

 

_'Yes?'_

 

In.

Out.

 

_'You better sit down, mate.'_

 

In.

Out.

_Right._

_He's right._

_Breathe, Watson._

In.

Out.

_Can't move._

_I'm frozen._

_Oh god._

In.

Out.

_Sherlock..._

In.

Out.

 

_'Sherlock?'_

 

In.

Out.

 

_'I'll inquire about his status.'_

 

In.

Out.

_Help me._

In.

Out.

_Sherlock, please._

In.

Out.

_Don't do this to me._

In.

Out.

_You are suddenly there again._

_So close and yet I can feel you slip away from me._

_Again._

_Please don't do this to me._

_Please don't leave me._

 

_'John?'_

 

In.

Out.

 

_'We don't know how bad it really is. He's not going anywhere. Yet...'_

 

In.

 

_'What did you say?'_

 

Out.

 

_'He's not leaving you. He's right here. Inside these walls. You'll get to see him. Now come and sit down with me.'_

 

_Move legs._

_Look up._

_Turn._

_Bend knees._

_Sit._

_Good man._

In.

Out.

 

_'Where's Mycroft? Where'd he go? Is he with him?'_

 

_Panic. Breathe, Captain._

_I'm standing. Why am I standing? Didn't I just sit?_

_'Calm down, John. He's just about to ask about Sherlock.'_

_'Where'd he go? Is he with him?'_

 

_I'm moving._

_I can feel it._

_I don't know where I'm going._

_In._

_Out._

_Left._

_Right._

_Nurse desk._

_Of course._

_Mycroft._

_Umbrella._

_Naturally._

_Git._

_Okay, stop._

_'Sherlock?'_

 

_'John! I didn't hear you approaching. You better sit down. You are rather pale.'_

 

_'Sherlock?'_

 

_'He's in surgery, John.'_

 

In.

 

_'Sherlock?'_

 

Out.

 

_'Oh god, Greg, take him to a chair, he's in shock, obviously.'_

 

_'Sherl...'_

 

_Hands._

_Dragging me away._

_Backwards._

_Whose hands?_

_Manicured._

_Nicotin stains._

_Not Mycroft._

_Ink dots._

_Paper cut._

_Aftershave._

_Greg._

_Friend._

In.

Out.

 

_'Come here, mate. Let's get you seated. Now look at me. John! Look at me!'_

 

In.

Out.

_Raise your eyes._

_Focus._

In.

Out.

 

_'Goddammit, John! Please! You're scaring me!'_

 

In.

Out.

_Processs._

In.

Out.

_Snap._

 

_'What?'_

 

_'I said, you're scaring me!'_

 

_'Are you fucking seruous, Greg? I'm...what?'_

 

_'You're scaring me, man. With your aimless stare and your shallow breathing...'_

 

_'Fuck! I'm- Mycroft!'_

 

_'John, try to calm down...'_

 

_'Get your hands off me, Greg! I mean it!'_   


 

John Watson stood.

He shook Greg's hands away and stormed forward once more towards the nurse's desk.

_'Mycroft!'_

_'Welcome back, Doctor Watson. I'm glad you overcame your initial panic attack. You're quite limited in your use as a  Doctor in such a state.'_

_'What...? Fuck off, Mycroft. Stop talking posh! How is he! Tell me! NOW!'_

_'Doctor Watson, I need you to calm down or I'm afraid we'll have to make you leave.'_

_'I AM CALM! Totally calm! I just want to know how he is!'_

_'As much as it pains me to say, Sir, I'm afraid I can't give you any information unless you are a member of the family...'_

_'Fuck that! Fuck your damn protocols! I'm a Doctor, don't try to persuade me with your stupid regulations! He's my patient!'_

 

_'John...'_

Soft.

Soothing.

Gentle.

 

_'Shut up, Mycroft. I can handle this! Look, I've known this man for almost two years now. I've been treating his every disease, looked after him, tended to his wounds and been his bloody psychiatrist, whenever he went mental about something! I want to know how he is and I want to know NOW!'_

 

_'John...'_

Mycroft's voice got sterner.

 

_'I'm afraid, Sir, unless you have proof that you're family, I cannot tell you...'_

 

_'Is that proof enough?!'_

Mycroft yanked up John's left hand and showed it, palm facing away from her, to the nurse.

 

The ring that he had given to John just hours before still on his finger.

The british government glowered at the nurse.

Clearly, his patience had its limits.

The nurse gaped at the ring and lowered her eyes obediently.

 

_'He was admitted about 45 minutes ago, after paramedics had removed him from a vehicle involved in a collision. They had to cut him from the car and secured his spine for_

_there are indications of severe trauma to the lower vertebrae. He was transported here and stabilised with saline solution as well as blood transfusions. He seems to have multiple_

_fractions in the left side of his body, primarily his leg and shoulder as well as broken ribs and a possibly punctured lung. Head trauma was reported to be serious but brain_

_damage ought to be limited according to the paramedics first inspection. He is currently in radiology to check for internal damages and will be transferred to surgery_

_immediately after.'_

 

She looked up and added _'I'm sorry.'_

Then she turned and occupied herself with paperwork, clearly uncomfortable under the scrutiny of both men standing in front of her desk, eyes widened in fear and brows drawn together in mutual worry.

_'John...'_

 

Mycroft began, but John held up a hand.

 

_'Give me a second, will you?'_

 

John stepped back and turned.

Hand over his face, he bowed his head and took a deep breath.

In.

Out.

As he looked up again, Greg was approaching slowly, unsure of what to do or say.

Bad news indicated delicate measures of comfort.

He'd seen enough relatives and victims to know how fragile one was towards well-meant consolation.

Some people appreciated it, some people broke down under it.

Some people snapped.

Violently.

Traumatized ex-soldiers possibly did.

So Greg said nothing and simply offered his presence.

John could walk up to him and hug him for comfort.

Or walk away if he preferred to be for himself.

His decision.

John did not move at first, though.

He just stood.

Stood and processed the list of injuries he had just been reported.

So a car must have crashed into his, sideways, otherwise the trauma wouldn't be mostly located on the side of his body.

The safety belt in the rear seats on his preferred side (and Sherlock always sat at the window, never in the center seat), were secured to three points of the seat.

This minimizes drastic movements of the body upon impact and thereby minimizes initial trauma to the abdomen like the center seat belt would.

Risk of internal damage lower, though increased chance of head injury on the side through proximity to the cars frame.

They had stabilized him with saline solution and blood, so bleeding must be severe and they restricted his spine to prevent neuronal damage, if not already aquired.

In.

Out.

_20._

He looked up.

He's not sure why.

Probably it's a soldier thing.

_Face the enemy._

_Go into battle with your head held high._

_Don't let the others get to your heart. Your pride. Your determination._

_Keep your chin up._

_And go for it._

_  
_It took him three steps to reach Greg.

A fracture of a second to wrap his arms around his neck and bury his face in his comrades shoulder.

An eternity to finally find the strength to capitulate and give in to his emotions.

Most times a soldier, a fighter is in good control of his emotions.

Has to be.

As long as the adrenaline keeps flowing you are in battle mode.

You do not realize how scared or sick or afraid you ought to be.

It's only once you come down from that high that you have the time to reflect and then break and crumble and cry.

Most times John is in good control of his emotions.

Sometimes he is not.


	8. The Fear of a new Beginning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock is out of surgery.  
> This doesn't make things easier for John.  
> Fear is what I have now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was written on another rainy day in London.

 

 

 

_I used to be so strong._

_I am a soldier._

_I killed people._

_I am a doctor._

_I save them._   
  


John Watson used to be the strong one in every situation.

Growing up.

Helping Harry.

Failing her.

Graduating uni.

Enlisting.

Leaving this country and trading it for dust and blood and gunmetal glistening under the afghan sun.  
  


Getting shot was the first moment in his life when he felt weak.

Physically.

He couldn't take any action.

Couldn't lay hands on himself and try to heal him.

Couldn't be the shoulder to rely on for himself.

He was simply, terrifyingly helpless.

Something he's not used to.

 

He used to be the strong one.

But not this time.

Not now.

Now was the time to look and fear, to worry and shake, to cry and to flee.

Fight or flight.

And as he'd had his share of fighting, now was the time he fled.

Fled, because he couldn't stand the sight of his best friend and the one person he loved most on this godforsaken planet, hooked to machines and pierced by needles, covered in dressings and casts to hold together his broken bones. 

Stitches, where skin was torn.

Bruises, where tissue was smashed beyond all recognition.

Silence, where there should be a litany of protest about being bound to a bed, fed and pampered like a child and lashing out at nurses, doctors and anyone in general who dared looking at him with so much as pity in their eyes.

The usual state Sherlock Holmes was in whenever injured because he couldn't stand his own vulnerability, his helplessness, his pride being scarred. 

His dignity scratched.

All that was too much. 

Too much to see, to process and to understand. 

How one usually so active mind and person could be so utterly still. 

Forced into silence and immobility and trapped inside his own shell, he simply lay there. 

Eyes closed. 

A tube shoved down his gorgeous throat to support and control his breathing.

John was sick of the sight. 

Sick of seeing this man so lost and bereft of his natural grace. 

Appearing so small and frail and just so still. So utterly, deafeningly still.

 

He ran. 

Ran away as far as his shaking feet would carry him. 

Up the stairs to work off the cruel wave of adrenaline that his panic brought with it. 

Physical movement when all else fails. 

When your head won't work anymore because you can't form a single coherent thought under the screams and shouts and mayhem inside of your mind. 

Helplessness- being at his wits end, was something John Watson hated the most. 

The feeling of defeat, of accepting that there's nothing he can do, his hands are tied and all he is left with is the wait and hope and prayers. 

So he moves instead of giving in, runs instead of collapsing and tries to occupy himself with the strain of physical labour to keep his thoughts away from the bundle of flesh and broken bones that used to inherit the greatest mind he had ever known.

Like a light switched off, Sherlock was nothing like the enigmatic man he used to be.

Nothing more than a shell, a vessel for his intellect now dimmed and buried under the shards of what was once a graceful, almost impossibly flawless body. 

He looks like a marble statue, John thinks.

Dug up only recently from beneath the earth and covered in the scars of life, the dirt and grime of times passed and the blood of guilt and innocence all the same.

 

He had betrayed him.

_He must have had a reason for it._

He had lied to him and made him believe he was dead.

_It clearly wasn't easy for him to do so- judging by the tears he had shed._

He had abandoned him, left him behind and alone to dash off once more, not thinking about the consequences his behaviour had on other people.

_The only way he used to know before he met John._

To find something, a solution, another puzzle, another stupid, fucking game to distract himself and give him something to fuel his self esteem.

_Like John had done by becoming a doctor and joining the armed forces._

 

  
Sherlock Holmes is a great man. 

But with terrible social skills. 

And practically no amount of real self esteem. 

His arrogance and coldness in his encounters with other people are a carefully constructed mask of self-preservation, a way to hide his insecurities- the insecurities everyone has. 

More so, when your mind is painfully aware of your social awkwardness, the way you appear in the eyes of people, seeing their expressions but being unable to relate to the emotion found there.

He is aware of the way he appears, the way he makes people feel.

But he can't help it.

He's tried, certainly, but he must have experienced things that give him such a hard time learning to trust another human being, it made John's heart ache everytime his thoughts went down that road.

He tries to shield himself.

From pain.

Disappointment.

From being mocked or being abandoned. 

He doesn't attract other people in a positive way.

He attracts attention with his behaviour, certainly.

But he attracts their confusion, their disapproval, their hate.

Not feelings of sympathy or interest.

Probably never has.

And what a horrendous feeling that must be, growing up, John doesn't dare to imagine.

And then again, he does.

And maybe that's why he stayed.

Why he couldn't let go of this impossible man, because John sensed, subconciously first, that there is potential, so much more for Sherlock to be, if only he could get himself to relax and enjoy his life in other ways than looming over dead bodies and his microscope.

Maybe the doctor inside of John wanted to mend the broken pieces of Sherlock's mind, his palace for god's sake, and give him the comfort he clearly was in need of.

He wanted to be that for him.

 

John can sense when someone is uneasy.

That's part of his own problem, isn't it?

He knows and he can't stop himself trying to help and fix and exhausting himself in doing so.

Loading the burdens of other people onto his own conscience and blaming himself if he fails to set things right in the end.

He's always done that.

And he tried so with Sherlock.

And maybe also because he sensed that they both could give each other what they needed.

Comfort, safety and yet the thrill of the chase and companionship that blooms out of that.

Sherlock needs John's grounding.

And John needs Sherlocks uplifting.

The doctor holds the detective back, when he's about to go to far or saves him from the battlefield when it's already to late.

The detective in return gives the doctor the purpose he clearly needs, makes him feel whole again and keeps showing him that he is more than he perceives himself to be.  
  
Odd for him to do so, to care so much, when he has learned not care about himself in that way at all.  
  


He isn't a natural beauty.

Not on first sight.

His body is lanky, his face contains so many odd features that make him look alien compared to established norms of beauty.

Of course John has noticed each and every single one of them.

There's his bushy eyebrows.

Unkempt and messy, just like his hair, but oddly not matching the colour.

There's his eyes.

The shape rather almond-like than european, as if some ancestor of his had been from asia.

The ridiculous curly lashes.

The stunning eye colour John still is unable to define as one in particular.

It changes.

His nose.

Graceful, yet male.

Long and sleek, like the rest of his body.

His mouth.

_Dear, Lord._

The amount of time John has spent secretly staring at it.

Trying to wrap his mind around how he could have such big plush lips, the curve of his cupid's bow bordering ridiculous on a man and how at time such vicious and crude words could erupt from such a soft-looking, inviting mouth.

Yes, John seriously was enamoured with Sherlock.

That much had become painfully clear to him as time went by.

And maybe Sherlock had sensed that, too.

Not exactly that John had fallen in love with him- he was probably unable to put a name on that emotion, mistook it for feelings of friendship and comraderie naturally evolving out of a relationship like theirs.

Where you trust each other with your life, where one kills for you within hours of knowing you.

Where one sacrifices all he ever had, his reputation and even his life so that he could save you- in whatever way Sherlock had thought he needed to save John.

But John was sure of it.

He wanted to be sure of it.

He knew this man so well, had seen him at his most basic.

In need of a loo, a shower, sleep.

He's seen him move around the flat in nothing but a towel.

That he allowed John to see him like that- bare and vulnerable and utterly human- showed John that Sherlock had indeed developed a trust that went beyond all he must have had in a very long time.   
  


And this is why John Watson was angry with him, of course- he couldn't believe how Sherlock still thought he couldn't tell him about whatever went on inside of his head that day. 

But it was also the reason why John felt such remorse now, because of course Sherlock must have been confused.

He had never before found himself in a situation where he was responsible for another's safety.

Because he cared for that person.

Because he was now part of a tandem.

It wasn't just him anymore.

Reckless actions and neglecting his own well-being.

There was another person to be considered.

A burden sometimes, maybe, but also a reassurance, a safe port to retreat to when needed.  
  
Something John Watson had considered himself to be by now. 

The little voice of decency and reason in his ear. 

Ever constant by his side. 

His back up, his shoulder to rely on. 

His cover to hide behind. 

His blogger, his chef, his goddamn physician, his friend.

His only friend.  
  


 

_I don't have friends._

_I just got one._   
  


 

And as John Watson sat amongst the desperate and the waiting, four floors above Sherlock's hospital bed- he realized what he was most afraid of.  
  
He was afraid of the man, that was going to wake up and the look he might have upon his face.

He feared the frustration Sherlock would feel upon seeing him.

That he would consider him to be the living proof of his failure.

That all he was left with now was a broken soldier and his own broken body.

He was afraid that his face wouldn't be the way he remembered it.  
  


And he was ashamed of himself. 

But he was also angry. 

Still so angry. 

And sad.

That Sherlock had left him out of whatever had troubled him. 

That he hadn't trusted him enough to let him in on his plans or fears. 

That he had felt the need to return to his old self, put his ego above everything else but by doing so, felt so alone once more, that he had cried upon saying his last goodbyes. 

He had known that this would hurt John- break him. 

He had known that it was wrong to do whatever he chose to do alone and he did feel remorse doing so. 

And probably it also hurt him to accept that once more he would put everythjng he valued at risk. 

That the stakes were high that things would never be the same and that John was part of that. 

Part of what he valued and part of what he'd lose- and might never get back.  
  


And that- the thought of Sherlock actually believing, in all his humble inabilitiy to understand the way human emotions worked, that John would not be able to forgive him, not want to have him back in his life- was the thing that finally made John Watson cry.  
  



	9. Teddy bear

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock tries to find his way back to consciousness.  
> It's not working very well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING:  
> Description of tracheotomy and massive angst, I think.

 

 

 

His throat dry, roughened and sore from the tracheostomy tube shoved inside.  
  
His lips cracked and dried from breathing with an open mouth for too long.  
  
His eyes clotted by the dried fluid from his tear ducts.  
  
His eyeballs throbbing behind closed lids as the pressure in his head is steadily increasing.  
  


 

Sherlock Holmes was conscious without really being awake. 

Eyes still closed, he fought his way through the fog of disorientation, a drug induced state of numbed pain and blissful drowsiness.

He didn't know what had happened, he didn't know where he was, all he could remember was being on a plane and being happy and somewhat anxious.  
  


_Why?_  
  
 _Why those two emotions?_  
  
 _Data! I need data!_  
  
 _Nothing._  
  


Panic flared up in his chest and he started to choke on the tube.

A miserable attempt at coughing up whatever was invading his trachea only increasing the anxiety and cold adrenaline washed through his entire body, making him jerk.

He tried to reach up, pull out whatever was threatening to suffocate him but he found his muscles not responding.

Only now did he become aware of the burning ache that covered his entire form like a blanket, draped over him and wrapping itself tighter around him with every attempt at motion.

Pure, animalistic fear overwhelmed him and he struggled to cry out, only to gag even harder and inflicting more pain on his already strained muscles.  
  


 

Sherlock Holmes was a man of brain power.

And he thanked and cursed all deities now for his exceptional gift.

One the one hand he was thankful that his most precious posession was obviously still working.

On the other hand he hated his own mind for being so acutely aware of everything- at all times.

Especially now as he struggled to cope with the sensations crashing down onto him like an ocean wave.

Worse than he had ever felt and bound to stay exactly where he was.

He wanted to move, he needed to run.

Do something.

Scream, leap about, cry.

Nothing.

Motionless.

He was trapped inside a useless shell.

For once the clever detective understood what his specimens must have felt like, had they still been alive when he pinned them in place on a cork board as a youth.

He understood that he was now completely at the mercy of others. 

Nurses. 

Doctors. 

His doctor.

Where was his doctor?

_John?_

 

Where was John?

 

_John Hamish Watson!_

_Help me!_

_John Hamish Watson!_

 

_Where are you?_

 

_John Hamish Watson!_

 

_I need you._  
  


 

John awoke from his uncomfortable doze in the uncomfortable chair next to Sherlock's rather comfortable looking bed.

Mycroft had of course set up some special arrangements to further benefit his brother's health.

He'd even went so far as to summon some of the most brilliant minds in the medical world via conference video call to discuss the best possible treatments to ensure Sherlock would make a full recovery as soon as possible.

John was grateful for it.

Utterly grateful, in fact.

Not only did it (slightly) soothe his medical instincts knowing that the world's best were on the case of his beloved friend, but also did it give Mycroft something to do and keep him from fiddling with his umbrella too much or upsetting the nurses because of the smallest muscular twitch Sherlock's subconcious would produce.  
  


Surprisingly John Watson had calmed down significantly since his minor mental breakdown some hours ago.

Eventually he had admitted to himself that there was no use in staying away from the man he loved and that it was to both of their benefits if he provided Sherlock with something- anything familiar to hold onto while being unconcious, even if it was simply the smell of John being around. 

His hair. 

His skin. 

His jumper. 

It would help, John knew from own experience, as his mum had brought his childhood cuddly toy to his hospital bed as soon as he had been fit for transport back to Britain.

It must have looked utterly ridiculous, a grown man, a soldier, trained to kill and skilled to heal in a state of utter helplessness, weakened by bloodloss, bodily excertion and battling a serious infection.

Covered in sweat and caught in the throes of fever, he had lain there with his teddy in the crook of his elbow, the toy peacefully smilling with his ever friendly face, while John kept tossing and moaning in a half awake state of delirium.

He vaguley remembered the smell of his childhood provided by the furry bear and the soothing voice of his mother, ever so often putting her hand on his forehead, feeling if the fever had cooled down, just as she had done when he was little.

This was the last memory of his mother that John possessed.

She had died of a her recently reoccured breast cancer before he woke up again.  
  


John shook the memory from his mind.

It was too painful to think about what his mum had done for him while being in need of care herself.

How he was unable to help her, support her.

And how she spent all of the time she had left by his side.

He concentrated on the man before him.

A thin layer of sweat shone on Sherlock's skin and instinctively John reached out to check for fever.

There was none.

But there were definately tremors erupting from deep inside the detective's muscles and John couldn't help but flinch, imagining how the other man must feel like in this very moment.

Sherlock was in pain.

Severe pain.

His entire left side was practically mushed, from his bones to his muscles.

He was strapped up and held in position by screws and casts and the sheer thought of how helpless Sherlock would feel once he woke up made his stomach turn.

He genuinely hoped that Sherlock would be granted a few hours more in the arms of morpheus, for there he wouldn't have to feel all this.

But just as he had finished this thought and added a little bit of a silent prayer, Sherlock twitched and coughed and struggled with orientation.

Panic welled up in his body, John could feel its heat radiating off his body, could smell it in the sweat upon his skin.

He knew the state that Sherlock was in too well.

He had seen it far too often in his life, during medical training in the A&E, field training as a young soldier in Kosovo and again in Afghanistan.

It was the strongest physical reaction of fear.

The fear of death.

The shortcircuiting of your brain as it is overwhelmed with input from several senses and unable to put a meaning behind it.

Confusion in its most primal form, one could say, as neurons fire uncontrollably in all directions, your muscles receive and give the order to move, but are looked in place at the same time by hyperpolarisation of motoneurons through GABA and glycine, while norepinephrine, dopamine, enkephalins, serotonin and corticosteroids flood your body like a tsunami wave and hit your 'center of arousal'- both good and bad- your amygdala.

Paralysed by fear.

It can be a blessing as well as a curse.

Enemy soldiers might believe you dead as you're lying on the ground, motionless.

Other times you might drown or crash or fall or simply choke to death because not even your lungs seem to find the strength to expand.

This last feeling in particular John remembered having felt sitting in their living room of 221B only hours after Sherlock's 'death'.

After he had begged and pleaded with Molly to see him one more time.  
  
Sherlock moaned and tried to get rid of his breathing aid.

As it was unclear if Sherlock's lungs were already working on their own accord again, all John could do was try to help him calm down and give him some sort of comfort.

So he placed his hand gently but firmly onto Sherlock's chest and tried to still him- needles and tubes attached to your body aren't very happy about excited movements.

Sherlock's initial panic increased at first, being restrained by a strong force only added to his discomfort, but soon the warm presence and the slight rubbing motion of fingers actually gave his mind something else to focus on other than anxiety.

He wondered who's hand it was.

_A doctor's?_

_A nurse's?_

_John's?_

_Mycroft's?_

_Mummy?_

_No. That was impossible._  
  


He concentrated, he tried to at least.

Through the fog inside of his mind palace, he stepped closer and closer to the entrance hall.

The great wooden portal that openend onto a gigantic lawn- stretching out as far as the eye could see.

Out there would be John.

Standing in the afternoon sunlight with his jeans and his chequered shirt, looking all innocent and yet having a gun tucked into the back of his trousers.

He would look at him, smiling.

Hopefully he would be smiling.

And then Sherlock would be home, he would be safe again and where he always wanted to be.

But then John would be angry and mad at him for playing this trick on him.

He would not be able to understand, his anger would overshadow every attempt at explanation Sherlock would try to make and then he would storm off, walk away and Sherlock would try to run after him.

For once it would be him chasing his doctor, but he would be too slow.

Too weak.

Too broken.

His leg would not work, as it's broken in at least five places- so much he could already tell.

He would shout and beg and plead with him, but John would be deaf to his apologies and then he would be alone again.

The sun would set behind his palace and he would find himself out in the cold once more.

On his own.

All alone.

 

_I don't have friends._

_I only ever had one._  
  


John tried to rub soothing circles into the skin over Sherlock's heart.

With his right hand he brushed the sweat dampenend curls off his friend's forehead and muttered comforting things he had memorised a long time ago, after his first patient had died and it had been his duty to inform the family.

He bend down and whispered in Sherlock's ear that he was not alone.

That it would be alright and that he needed rest.

 

_Go back to sleep, Sherlock._

_Trust me when I say you want to go back to sleep._

_I'll be here when you wake up._  
  


 

But then he wouldn't.

Because Sherlock attempted to talk.

Just one word.

One word to change the world.

One word to shatter John's careful built composure.  
  


_'Hamish...'_  
  



	10. On the count of three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The cannula is removed and Sherlock is grateful for the man holding his hand throughout the procedure.  
> Mycroft.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So just to explain a few things (feel free to disagree):
> 
> In my head canon Sherlock and Mycroft do NOT hate each other. In fact they are quite close. Sometimes that causes tension and fights. As you do. All siblings know those moments.  
> But they love each other. Only ever had each other. And with Sherlock's backstory that I have in mind, Mycroft is the only person he aboslutely trusts.  
> Until John happened.
> 
> About the nicknames they use:  
> Mycroft calls him 'Sher' in the sense of 'cher' the french word for 'dear'.  
> Sherlock calls him 'Winnie' because one of Mycroft's middle names is Wynton.  
> In fact his full name in my universe is Mycroft Wynton Albert Holmes. A pun on the name Winston as in Winston Churchill, because I think he is very Churchill-esque and has a wicked sense of humour.  
> If you want to know Sherlock's full name, you'll have to stick around for I will reveal it in a future chapter.

_...Hamish..._   
  


_I thought I was able to bear it._

_Be strong enough for both of us._

_Up until that moment._

_Up until hearing him say my name._

_The name he had never used before._

  
_So I bolted._

_And ran._   
  


_Trying to find somewhere, some place where the world wasn't full of fear and worry and the terror of losing everything I ever wanted._

_Everything I ever needed._

_Where me and him could be next to each other, fighting, laughing, arguing._

_Living._

  
_I just want you to live._   
  
_I just want to live with you._   
  
_For you._   
  
_I just want you to need me, too._   
  
  


 

Mycroft Holmes looked up from his newspaper as the door was thrust open and a distraught John Watson stormed off down the corridor.

Instantly the elder Holmes jumped to his feet, called out for a nurse and entered his baby brother's hospital room.

Sherlock was shaking.

Coughing.

Squirming in discomfort.

His skin was covered in sweat and he tried to speak.

Make his pain known.  
  


 

_Oh, Sher._

 

  
Mycroft quickly approached him and placed a comforting hand on his cheek.

Cold.

Trembling muscles.

Flinch.

Eyes snapping open.  
  


_'Hamish...?'_

 

  
Disappointment.

Obvious in his eyes.

He'd expected to see John.

Wanted it to be John comforting him.

His doctor.

His confederate.

His best and only friend.  
  


 

Disappointment.

And then vulnerability.

Even more than before.

Because Sherlock allowed himself a moment of true abandon. 

He left behind all his guards and all his armours.

His carefully built walls.

And he let himself be the little boy once more, lying in his childhood bedroom looking at his big brother with round, fearful eyes, glossed over with tears of distraught and pleading with him to make it go away.  
  


_The voices, My._

_Make them leave._

_They frighten me._

_Please._

_My._

_Please._

_Help me._   
  


 

And Mycroft had touched his cheek then as he did now, stroking the tender skin with his thumb and keeping his other hand firmly on the boys' shoulder.

Supporting him.

Calming him.

And Sherlock had flinched as he did now.

Because touch had never been something he was comfortable with.

 

_Understandable._

_Very understandable._   
  


Sherlock was looking at him, as hurt and broken as ever.

The emotions displayed on his face forming a cold knot in his brother's stomach.

Making his skin crawl and bringing a wave of memories and sadness with it that made the elder Holmes' knees buckle.  
  


Mycroft let go of Sherlock's shoulder and grabbed the railing of the hospital bed instead to support himself.

Sherlock instantly relaxed as much as was possible in his emotional and physical state, his face smoothing out a little at least and letting out a deep, if shaking, breath.

Mycroft smiled at him.

A smile he tried to remember when he had used last.

Probably at Sherlock's seventeenth birthday when he had had the honour to break the news to him of his acceptance to Cambridge.

The true joy in his little brother's eyes upon his dream coming true was an image Mycroft had carefully stored away in his own memory palace.

He had never seen him display the same amount of genuine happiness since.

And he had never returned that smile.

Too much had happened in the meantime.

Too much had happened before that day, but both of them carefully avoided to mention their past at all.

No use in doing so.

What's happened can't be changed.

And who's gone is gone.  
  


_The future is what shapes a man._

  
It's what their father used to tell Mycroft.

And then he had erased himself from both his sons' futures.  
  


 

Sherlock tossed his head.

Communicating with his elder brother in an intimate way.  
  


_Make the images go away._

_Make the sounds go away._

_Make the feelings go away._

_Help me get away._   
  


 

He couldn't.

It wasn't his duty as the older brother to help Sherlock escape, but to help him, guide him, be at his side to face whatever ordeal lay before them.

Whatever puzzle, whatever memory, whatever insult, whatever throwback.  
  
The nurse was checking Sherlock's tubes and needles.

Made sure he hadn't ripped anything out in his vigour and then left to fetch a doctor.  
  
Mycroft stared at his brother.

Smaller than he had ever seen him and yet, this time, a grown man.

Not the frightened child, not the beat up pupil, not the exhausted, overdosed addict.  
  


He was an impressive person.

What he had managed to shape himself into, without paternal guidance, without the overbearing love of a mother, without a big brother to come to for advice.

He had struggled, certainly.

He had fallen.

Been to the abyss.

Had gotten back up on his feet only to fall again.

Only to get back up again.

He had fought and been defeated.

Insulted and been called names himself.

So many times.

He had hurt and been hurt.

Too much so.

He had learned from every experience he ever made.

Extracted the useful information and drawn his conclusions.

Filed them away in his head for later use.

Day by day he grew and matured.

With every failure he gained strength.

With every defeat he acquired wisdom.  
  


Mycroft never told him so but he was incredibly proud of his little brother.

Clearly he had his faults.

Character- wise.

But who hadn't?

Who had a clear conscience?

What impressed Mycroft most was how Sherlock never gave up.

At least not truly.

Even his overdose was an outcry of his desperation, not an act of carelessness.

He didn't want to die, he wanted to live.

Sherlock had always been such a curious, lively child.

Going on and on.

Never failing to find something that he could occupy himself with.

He had no reason to die.

But he had an issue with expressing to others the ways his brilliant mind worked.

What he felt and what he needed.  
  


Mycroft wished he could have been there for him more.

Some things could have been avoided.

But then again, he would not be the same man.  
  


 

The doctor entered, the nurse following and adressed Sherlock in a gentle voice.

Not your average doctor.

Of course not.

Mycroft had ensured it.  
  


_'Mister Holmes I estimate it is time we took out your tracheostomy tube._

_I was informed that you are aware of general procedure and not to be patronised so I will explain how this will work without any flourish._

_We'll need you to lie down as flat as possible._

_Your brother and my nurse will support you as I'm aware of the pain you are in._

_We will take care of that as well._

_I will then ask you to exhale as steadily and slowly as you can._

_You will gag._

_You have to fight against it._

_I will work as quickly and efficiently as possible and hope it will ease your discomfort._

_Once the cannula is removed I'll have to cover the opening with sterile gauze and secure it with tape._

_We'll have to change it at least once a day._

_Your voice will be hoarse and I ask you to refrain from speaking too much for the first couple of days but I know how hard it is._

_Every time, and I mean every time you attempt to speak or have to cough you must occlude the gauze with your fingers to prevent leaking of air._

_It usually takes at least two weeks until the opening is closed._

_Sometimes less._

_My daughter went through this process quite a few times, so I know what I'm talking about._

_We'll keep you here for another night at least to keep an eye on your progress but as I was informed that your flatmate is also a doctor I trust his judgement and skill to take_

_proper care of you, so we can release you very soon._

_Do you understand what's going to happen now?'_   
  


 

Both Sherlock and Mycroft nodded in compliance.  
  
As the nurse approached and put an arm around his neck to ease him down and adjust his headrest, Mycroft mimicked her and placed a steadying hand on his baby brother's chest.

He suddenly found his other hand tightly enclosed in Sherlock's.

They exchanged a look.  
  


_I'm here, Sher._

_You are not alone._

_I love you, boy._

 

  
_Don't let go, My._

_Don't leave me here._

_I need you, Winnie._

 

  
The doctor slipped on some latex gloves and went to work.

  
_'On the count of three, Mister Holmes.'_

  
Sherlock drew a deep breath.

Adjusted his grip on Myrcroft's hand and nodded, still looking at his older brother.  
  
As the doctor started to pull out the cannula, he tensed.

His eyes squeezing shut for a second as he violently fought not to gag.

Mycroft put his hand on his forehead.

Eyes snapping open.

Expressing his gratitude.  
  


_'Alright, boy. Alright.'_

He whispered.  
  


Sherlock trembled with the effort not to panic.

Too much sensation.

Too much pain.

His mind palace spray painted in a rainbow of colours.

Graffiti's of emotions trying to beexpressed, felt, acted on.  
  
The tube was out and the gauze in place and the doctor nodded his approval.  
  


 

_'Well done, Mister Holmes. I'll leave you to rest now. But I'll be back later this evening.'_

 

  
He turned to leave, the nurse following.

As the door closed, Sherlock finally released his grip on Mycroft's hand and closed his eyes.  
  
Deep breath of relief.

Then a shaky inhale.  
  


 

_'I'll get him. I'll find him.'_   
  


 

Sherlock reached up to his throat.

Pressed his finger's to the gauze and opened his eyes.  
  


 

_'He was with me all along. In my head.'_   
  


 

A confession.

No need to hide his true emotions for John from his brother.

He knew.

He had probably seen the signs before Sherlock was even aware of them.

And he was better at observation than Sherlock.

_He_ had learned from _him_ as it is.

There was no need to hide anymore.

In fact, Sherlock wouldn't have the strength to pretend otherwise even if he wanted.

What people saw and what really went on between the two of them were two completely different stories.

No matter how much they bickered, teased, insulted each other, it was all just part of their game.

As brother's do.

Sometimes fighting.

Never really meaning it.

Having each other's back in the end.

Love.

Mycroft was his brother.

His kin.

His reliance.

His last man standing.

If everything fell apart around him, Mycroft had always been there.

If not physically present, he had taken care of him otherwise.

Sherlock knew that.

Was annoyed by that.

Expressed that.

Treasured that.

And returned it.

He had been hurt, felt abandoned when Mycroft had left for university.

But every time he was announced to come back home, Sherlock would be agitated all morning and as soon as the car pulled up he would dash down to the front door.

And Mycroft would put down his suitcase and hug his baby brother.

And then they would talk.

And when he left again, Sherlock would make a scene.

Shouting was involved when he was quite young still.

And massive sulks as he got older.

But when Mycroft called him from his dorm at Cambridge, Sherlock already a fellow student but housed in a different building, he would be there in an instant.

Listen to his brother's despair about having his heart broken and then avenging his brother by swapping Edward Nevell's tube of lubricant with an identical, capsaicin spiked one.

Mycroft had been angry with him.

For a bit.

And then he they had shared a hearty laugh over the phone and the next time they met for dinner Mycroft had hugged him a little tighter than usual.  
  


 

_'I'll find him for you. I promise.'_

 

And then he brushed his fingers over his brother's sharp cheekbones and gave his shoulder another squeeze before he left.  
  


He would return.

 

But John would not be with him.


	11. >LYS, Sherlock.<

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John is absolutely broken. As is his tea cup.  
> Mycroft tries to sort things out. As he always does.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promise, I promise, I promise it will end well.  
> I do.  
> Bear with me.

 

 

 

_I can't._   
  
_I can't._   
  
_I can't._   
  
_Yes, you do._   
  
_Yes, you should._   
  
_Yes, I will._   


John Watson walked the streets of London in a daze.

His breath knocked out of him, his muscles straining with every step.

He didn't want to leave.

It seemed as if his muscles fought to take each step that brought him further and further away from Sherlock.  


...Hamish...  


 

_Why?_

_Sherlock, why?_   
  
_What does it mean?_   
  
_That you are thinking of me?_

_In the moment of greatest agony you are thinking of me?_   
  
_Why Hamish?_

_Why my middle name no one ever used?_   
  
_How do you even know..._   
  
_Oh._   
  
_Of course._   
  
_...just if you're looking for baby names..._   
  
_Of course you remembered._   
  
_But why?_   
  
_Why now?_   
  
_Why that name?_   
  


He had reached Baker Street without consciously intending to go there.

But he wasn't surprised to find himself there.

This would always be home to him.

In the end.

Always.  
  
Where his life had finally begun to make sense.  


 

He ascended the stairs up to the sitting room.

Door half ajar as always.

A cup of tea still on the couch table.

Cold.  


 

_I'm quite cold, too, buddy._

_Don't know why actually._

_Don't know why I am talking to a sodding tea cup._

_Never liked you anyway._

_Gift from Sarah._

_Why did I keep you?_

_Sentiment._

_That's what Sherlock would say now._

_Was it sentiment?_

_That name?_

_Were you trying to express something?_

_Some deeper meaning that I couldn't grasp?_

_Keep up, John._   
  
_Sigh._

_Yes._

_I guess I can be quite frustratingly slow sometimes._   
  
_Why do you even keep me around?_   
  
_Well you didn't, did you?_

_You left._

_Sort of._   
  
_No._

_Shut up, Watson!_   
  
_Stop._   
  
_What do I do?_

_What do they expect me to do?_   
  
_Should I go back?_

_Hold your hand and whisper in your ear until you wake up?_   
  
_Should I stay here?_

_Leave you with the uncertainty that I might not be here when you finally return?_   
  
_No._

_You are not a cruel man, John Watson._   
  
_John Hamish Watson._   
  
_Why?_

_Sherlock?_   
  
_Do you have a middle name?_   
  
_Should I know about it?_   
  
_What does it matter?_   
  
_It's a name._   
  
_I only ever mentioned it this once._

_You kept it in your mind palace._   
  
_Why the fuck did you do that?_   
  
_No importance for any case at all._   
  
_What use does it have to you?_   


...Hamish...

  
_I don't know._

_I don't know what you are trying to achieve with that._   
  
_Why can't I see?_   


He grabbed the tea cup.

Meant to put it into the sink.

_These rooms are so full of memories._

_Memories of you._

_Me._

_Us._   
  
_Watching crap telly._

_Comparing boxes of books to find the one that would crack the case of a chinese smuggling ring._   
  
_Shouting at each other._   
  
_Violin music._   
  
_Christmas._   
  
_Oh, christmas._   
  
_Will you be home for christmas?_   
  
_Will we be here together?_   
  
_Would you still want me to be here?_   
  
_Of course._   
  
_Or not?_   
  
_You wouldn't have said my name if you wouldn't._   
  
_Or would you?_   


 

_'God dammit!'_   


 

A shatter.

Shards of porcelain on the hardwood floor.

Tea splatter on the wall.

An indent in the plastering.  
  
Mrs Hudson would be angry.  


 

_Why do I keep throwing stuff at the walls?_   
  
_I never did that before._

_Not even in my darkest moods about Afghanistan._   
  
_I don't know myself anymore._

_Don't recognise the John Watson I once was._   
  
_Do I want to?_

_Be the man I secretly hated?_

_Had no sympathy for?_

_Only pity?_

_A pathetic, broken soldier, who once had been the top of his class._

_The best surgeon of the regiment._   
  
_Have been._   
  
_Past tense._   
  
_So what now?_   
  
_I'm standing in the kitchen of a flat that I can't afford alone, hoping against better judgement that the aloof, asexual genius I fell in love with loves me back and we can live happily ever after?_   
  
_Curious how one can deceive themself._   
  
_This is my life._

_It used to be._   
  
_Can it be, still?_   
  
_Are we still friends?_

_Mates?_

_Brothers in arms?_

_Do you still want to have me around?_

_Do I still want to be around you?_   
  
_Of course I do._   
  
_I love you._   
  
_You bastard._   
  
_But would you ever love me as well, if I told you?_   
  
_Could you?_   
  
_I wish._

_I wish, I wish, I wish._   
  
_Life- like a cloud of smoke before me._

_Reforming, shape-shifting._

_Constantly._

_Dissolving._

_Insensifying._

_Spreading._

_Decreasing._

_Thick._

_Thin._

_Transparent._

_Am I transparent to you?_

_Like a ghost?_   


 

His left leg suddenly gave out underneath him and he stumbled, catching hold of the sink.

Sliding down to the floor.

Sitting and staring.  


 

_I'm the ghost of who I once was?_

_How did that happen?_   
  
_Shards of porcelain._

_I'm not a ghost, no._   
  
_A ghost could at least disappear._

_People are scared of ghosts._

_Ghosts don't feel._   
  
_I'm a doll._

_A porcelain doll._

_Once a glorious doctor, respected soldier._

_Now damaged._

_A crack in my skin._

_Broken porcelain._

_An ever-lasting smile on my face to keep up the facade._

_Still held together by the memory of who I once was._   
  
_A doll._

_Brilliant._   
  
_Footsteps on the stairs._   
  
_Please, no._   


 

_'John?'_   


 

Mycroft.  
  
The elder Holmes turned the corner through the kitchen door.

Froze.  
  
John Watson was sitting on the floor.

Back against the kitchen sink, knees drawn up to his chest and arms wrapped around them.  
  
He stared into the distance.

Into the sitting room in fact.

At Sherlock's armchair?  


 

_'You look horrible, if I may be so bold.'_   


 

_'Thanks. I know.'_   


 

_'He's awake.'_

 

  
Eyes shifting towards the elder Holmes.

He studied him for a second.  


 

 _'Good.'_ He said.

 

Uncertain.

Neutral voice.

Happy, certainly.

But reserved.

 

  
  
 _'He...'_ Mycroft began.  


A shift of expression.

Just a flash.

But it was there. Hope.  


_'_

_He asked for you.'_   


 

Eyes widening.

_He didn't expect this._

_Why didn't he?_

_You are his best friend!_

_His only friend!_

_Apart from me._

_But I'm his brother, I don't count. He didn't *choose* me._   
  
_He chose you._   


_'Do you think you are in the condition to face him? I'm sure there's a lot you want to tell him. Various insults, I presume. Quite justified I'd say. But John...'_   


 

He knelt down in front of him.  


 

_Mycroft Holmes kneeling?_

 

  
_'...please. I'm asking you. Do hear him out. You know he didn't leave you without a reason. Without knowing what consequences it would have. Give him the chance to explain._

_You can still decide to take your leave. I have a flat for you to stay until you found somewhere else that suits you better.'_   


 

He got back up.  


 

_'It's an offer. But I hope you won't find the need to accept it.'_   


 

A slight smile.

Just a tiny quirk of his lips.

Encouraging.

Hopeful.  
  
John took a deep breath.

Looked at the armchair once more.

At the broken tea cup.

At the stains.  


 

_'He'll love to examine the splash pattern. Not exactly blood. But certainly of interest. He'll cover the entire flat in fake blood and gabble on it for days and drive me insane.'_   


 

Random nonsense.

Mycroft followed his gaze to a stain on the kitchen wall.

 

  
_Ah._   
  
_'I suppose you have your answer there. You picture your future- with him.'_

 

  
A blank stare.  


 

_'You are coming with me now, John. And you will talk to him and be angry with him as you have every right to be and you will listen and then you will both understand what you_

_have done to each other. And I don't just mean the hurt...'_   


 

_'You are evil.'_   


 

_'I know. Shame, isn't it?'_   


 

_A grin._

_An actual grin from Mycroft 'Government' Holmes._

_Does he have a middle name?_

 

  
_'Why did he say it?'_

  
_'What did he say? I wasn't there.'_

 

True.

Mycroft had kept his distance when John was with Sherlock.  


 

_'Hamish. My middle name.'_   


 

_'Ah.'_

He shifted his umbrella into his other hand.

Retrieved his phone from his pocket.  


 _'Text from the morning he contacted me again:_  
  
 **_> Don't know if proper way exists to announce 'I'm not dead and deceived you all.' Will explain. Promise. On my way. ETA 11am @Heathrow. Send car, please. LYS, Sherlock. _ ** **_P.S. Find way to get Hamish home. Need to talk to him first. <_ **  
  
_Does this answer your question?'_  


 

 _'I don't...LYS?_ '  


 

_''Love You Sod.' Childish. He was on his direct way home to you, John. He wanted to explain to you first. As he does now. He's desperate to make you understand.'_   


_'Hamish?'_   


 

_'The code name we agreed upon when matters of you needed be discussed. Since the Adler case he was more worried about you than ever.'_   


He left it at that and turned to leave.

He waited in the car downstairs for twenty minutes.

Then he drove back to the hospital.  
  
Alone.


	12. Blackout

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's only so much...
> 
> Please. Stop.  
> John.

 

 

 

Sherlock was lying, staring into half distance. 

Absent. 

Emotionally exhausted. 

The hours ever since he woke up had been the darkest he had ever endured.

Even more painful than the time after his overdose, he couldn't remember ever being in such excrutiating pain and emotional agony before.  
  
Everything hurt.

Every fibre of muscle was strained, every nerve ending overstimulated.

His heart was pounding.

Felt heavy in his chest.

He was so acutely aware of every beat- it almost drove him insane for itself.

Apart from the rest of his broken body, every pounding of this muscle- a unique hybrid of intestinal and skeletal tissue structure- that sent jolts of pain to his head every other second.  
  
His breathing was shallow.

Partly because of his several broken ribs, partly because he tried to calm down that beast roaring inside of him.  
  
He loathed himself for doing what was necessary.

He hated himself for not being able to tell John, come back sooner.

Spare him from this altogether.

And then again he didn't understand why now- once he was back and the initial shock must be over- things didn't progress.  
  
Stasis.

Locked in space and time.

 

  
_Bloody quantum-locked._

 

 

Sherlock remembered mocking that tv show for its constant scientific inaccuracies.

But then again, he never left the room when Mycroft insisted on watching it over christmas.  
  
Mycroft.

The only constant in his life at this moment.

Mummy was certainly not able to visit.

Lestrade maybe.

But he was probably as angry as John.

Mrs Hudson?  
  


 

_Oh god._

_She will hate me._

_Utterly dispise me._

_I broke her little lady heart._   
  


 

He sighed.

His eyes falling shut.

Trying to ignore all the feelings, all the thoughts, all the sensations his injuries provided him with.  
  
He had been strong for the last five years of his life.

Had sworn to himself never to go down that one particular road again.

Had had made his peace with it.

But right now his craving to simply block it all out with a generous dose of morphine was as strong as ever.

Right now he had every reason to.

If there is a time and place to surrender yourself into the arms of drugs it is something like this.  
  


But he promised.

To his brother.

To his mother.

And most of all to himself.

He never again wanted to be the useless idiot he was whenever he was high.

No control over his temper, his mind, his body.  
  
No.

He wouldn't ever go there again.

He refused to take more painkillers even.  
  


 

_Temptation and I..._   
_Go fuck yourself._   
  


 

So much for his desperation.

His Harrow-education abandoned.

He was at his lowest level of patience.

Self-control.

His eyes burnt with tears yet unshed.

His face tense in an attempt to bottle up the turmoil inside of his head.  
  
He sighed again.

This time a gentle hand appeared and stroked his forehead.  
  
Mycroft.  
  
The utter terror Sherlock had felt when he had returned from his quest to find John- alone.  
  
Every time the door to his hospital room opened, ever since he had woken up properly, his eyes had immediately checked the doorway for John's familiar silhouette.

And evertime so far a vicious pang of guilt had surged through his chest.  
  


 

_He's not here._

 

 

Mycroft was sitting with him.

In silence.

He knew very well that there was nothing he could say to ease his brother's mind.

He didn't know himself what he would do in either Sherlock or John's situation.

So he kept his mouth closed and simply provided his baby brother with the reassuring presence he always had been to him.

Since the moment Sherlock was born, Mycroft had loved him dearly.

And with love there came worry.

And anxiety.

The sheer thought of losing this fantastic, fascinating creature was unbearable to him and he painfully remembered the last time he had sat with Sherlock.

Him lying in a hospital bed and Mycroft sharing his company.

It had been the first incident with the drugs.

And the most terrifying four hours he ever had to endure.  
  


 

_'Thank you for trying.'_

Sherlock's croaky voice brought him back to reality.  
  


 

_'I'm sorry I couldn't do better.'_  
  
Sherlock stared at him for an instant.

His face an open canvas of emotion.

But still guarded behind a protective   
layer of glass.

 

  
_'Not your fault._

_Only mine._

_As usual._

_Some good thing happens to me and I try to do, what I believe is the right thing, and then fuck it up completely.'_   
  


 

_'Sherlock...'_

Mycroft began.

 

  
  
_'Tell me one time where I didn't colossially sabotage myself when I finally achieved something 'normal'.'_

Silence.  
  
 _'He'll never forgive me.'_

Sherlock finished.

 

His voice only a tiny whisper- barely audible.

Carrying so much...

Like the little child again, staring up at him from his bed.

And like then, it was his task as the older brother to protect him.

From the onslaughts of the world, its people, its definition of 'normalcy', but mostly from himself.

Sherlock had always been a person who deeply reflected on himself.

His confidence when it came to scientific topics was perfectly balanced by his social insecurities.

Sherlock didn't see things the way other people did.

His world was so much more colourful, had so many more layers, so many more details.

Things to observe and obsess about that people wouldn't take a second look at, spare a single thought on.

A flake of dirt? So what?

But to Sherlock a tiny piece of a mystery.

A miracle.

A puzzle.  
  


 

_'You don't know that. Personally I think he simply needs more time to adjust himself to this... situation.'_

Mycroft countered.

His thumb caressing his little brother's cheek.  
  
Sherlock turned his face away from him, staring at the ceiling.  
  


 

_'I wish he were here. I'd like to see his face...ah!'_   
  


He jolted.

His entire body shaking, tossing, searching for a comfortable position.

A cramp.

He squirmed.

Trying to move the rigor out of his thigh muscle which only led to pressure in his injured leg, his hip.

A gasp.

A sudden need for air as his pain level increased even further.

He wasn't aware that he could go through so much adrenaline and pain without passing out.

The rather violent intake of breath made his lungs expand, sending another lightning strike through his side as his broken ribs protested against the movement. 

He cried out.

Clutched his hand to his side.

A choked sound reminding him that the still had a tracheostomy hole in his neck.

He wanted to speak.

He couldn't.  
  
Desperation.

Agony.  
  
He only had one had free as the other one was restrained from his shoulder down to his fingers in casts and straps of dressing.  
  


_Can't speak and hold ribs at the same time._   
  


 

Terror.

Panic flooding his body like a monsoon rain.

Raining down on him.  
  
A long choked intake of breath.  
  


_Ribs._   
  


 

A staccato of chest movement.  
  


_Panic attack._   
  


 

Violent sobbing while unable to move.   
  
Pure dispair filled him.

Desperation.

Distress.

He tried to take long desperate gasps for air.

Trying to calm himself down.

Fighting against his own body.  
  


 

_There's only so much..._   
  
_I've had worse._   
  
_No, actually I didn't._   
  


 

His voice became a constant whine of agony.

A plead for relief.

His chest jumping up and down from the mattress as he was ridden by sob after sob.

He fought.

His face screwed with exertion.  
  


 

_Stop._

_Please._

_Stop._

_John._   
  


 

He sobbed until his body couldn't take it anymore.

Until his own body had tormented him to the edge of consciousness. 

A gasp. 

His fist clenched in the cheap hospital sheet.

Then unclenched.   
  
Blackout.  
  



	13. Things you learn on a battle field

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John comes back.  
> But not in a way Sherlock would have wished for.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I do have some medical knowledge, but if I made a giant boo-boo feel free to tell me.
> 
> I know things are very sinister right now ('Woo Hoo') but I promise, promise, promise it will get better soon.  
> I hope to ease some of the tension and bring on the fluff ready in time for Christmas, when I'll have more time to write.

 

 

 

No move. 

No sound of breathing.   
  
Silence.

Deafening.  
  


 

With terror building up in his chest, Mycroft Holmes extended his hand to check his baby brother's pulse.   
  
It's a family curse, really.

Every man and woman in the line of their father inherited it for several decades now.

Where it originated from, no one knew.  
  
But at least they were prepared. 

And cautious.

 

Most of them.  
  


Sherlock had decided for himself to be above this carnal weakness he had been born with.   
  
His solution to the problem was to maintain a constant increased level of adrenaline.  
  
And to ignore it as best as he could.  
  
It usually wasn't much of an issue for a Holmes before reaching the age of forty-fife.  
  
In Sherlock's case, his drug abuse had taken its toll and made his heart weaker than was expected for his age.  
  


 

With slight trepidation Mycroft's fingers found the pulse point on his brother's neck.  
  
He searched.

Palpated.

Cursed.

Harrow over board.  
  


 

_'Fucking hell, Sherlock...'_   
  


 

He reached out and hit the big red emergency button at the wall behind the bed.  
  
Then he ripped the sheets off Sherlock's even leaner than usual frame and began to work his hospital gown out of the way.  
  
The doctors would need free access to his chest.  
  
Experience.

Mycroft cursed again over the fact of even having any kind of experience with this.  
  
As the gown was pulled down he lay a warm hand on Sherlock's chest, as if his touch alone might make the heart underneath that pale skin resume its beat again.  
  
Nothing.  
  
The door literally flew open and a doctor rushed in with two nurses right behind.  
  
A quick look at Sherlock's arranged figure on the bed.

Mycroft's hand where it rested on his chest.  
  
The doctor knew.

Mycroft confirmed.  
  


_'Cardiac arrest.'_   
  


 

\-----------------------------------------------------------  
  


 

Outside in the hallway John Watson stood- indecisive.  
  
He had found his was to Sherlock's room without difficulty, despite only having been there once before.  
  
A doctor can find his way around any hospital of the world.  
  


As soon as Mycroft had left 221b John had stood up from the hard kitchen floor and grabbed his jacket.  
  
But with his hand on the doorknob he had stilled.  
  


 

_Can I?_   
  
_Do I?_   
  
_Can we?_   
  


 

He had remained with his hand resting against the door's frame for at least ten minutes.  
  
Contemplating.

Trying to find his courage.

Thinking.

Re-thinking.

Finally deciding that he was overthinking.  
  


For once in his life he would not worry about all the might be's and could be's and what if's.  
  


This was not the way to continue.

This was not the way to go on.

This had never been an option.

  
If Sherlock would be a dick, if his exlanation would be a ridiculous confirmation of all the doubts people had tried to implant into John's heart from the very beginning, he could deal with it.

It would hurt.

Certainly.

But in the end, hate was one of the easiest emotions to handle.

He would have a hard time learning to live with the knowledge that Sherlock was still alive- but completely out of his grasp.  
  


But if Sherlock was the man John would swear every pledge on that he was, that he dreamed he was, that he loved and admired and adored- then John would find the strength and the courage to go through the painful process of making up and living on and possibly going back to normal.  
  
If Sherlock would still want things to go back to what they used to be.  
  


Why he wanted to explain to John first, he didn't dare to think about.

That tiny glow of hope that Sherlock might actually value their friendship as something more than just two blokes living togheter, chasing criminals and getting on tremendously despite themselves- it was something that he was desperately trying to push down, under cover, away as best as he could.  
  
With what Sherlock had offered about himself and his experiences with other people, John wasn't sure Sherlock actually knew what friendship felt like.

What it meant.  
  
He knew that Sherlock liked him a great deal.

He wouldn't have tolerated John's presence for that long if John wouldn't provide him with something.  
  
But did Sherlock know what that something was?

Was Sherlock capable of determining the different shades of feelings and put a name to them?  
  
  
 _'Hamish.'_

_It was just too much._

_I couldn't take that, Sherlock._

_So I bolted._

_And ran._  
  
  
  
Minutes had passed and John had found himself shivering and sweating at the same time.

There was absolute no use in remaining here.

This tranquil state of blurred boundaries and uncertainties was going to drive him insane and eventually kill him.  
  
He needed to act.

He needed an answer to six months of questions.

Six months of pain and dread and anger and regret.

Six months of longing for a sound, a touch, a familiar scent.  
  


 

_Six months of missing what has become essential to me and my survival._  
  
 _You._  
  
  
  
His walk to the hospital had passed in a blur.

He hadn't consciously stepped down to the front door or walked down Baker Street or entered the building.  
  
He simply stood here facing the door to Sherlock's hospital room.  
  
And again he was shaking.

 

He couldn't remember ever being so scared in his life.  
  
Not during his first night shift with the responsibility for more than forty patients in intensive care.  
  
Not during the first occasion he had his hands buried inside of a soldier knowing that all he would try to do to save him wouldn't be enough.  
  
Not with the bomb vest strapped around his chest.  
  
Not with the hound or in the moment he had seen Sherlock being escorted out of their home in handcuffs.  
  
He stood there, in the middle of the hallway, with his hands on his head, trying to sort his thoughts and feelings.  
  


_Soldier mode._

_Get yourself together, Watson._   
  


He was drawing deep breaths in order to steel himself when suddenly there was a commotion behind him at the Nurse's desk and a doctor and two of them rushed into Sherlock's room.  
  


_Emergency protocol._

_Patient in immediate danger of death._

_Sod the soldier mode._

_Doctor's mode active._   
  


His feet set into motion without him even thinking and a second later he found himself staring at Sherlock's bed, Sherlock's exposed body, Sherlock's pale and bruised chest.  
  
He registered Mycroft standing nearby- close enough to watch, but leaving enough room for the medical team to work.  
  
A slight pang of panic.

Of guilt.

 

What if Sherlock died now?

Under his very eyes and he had been too scared, too proud to tell him?  
  
What if now he'd never get the chance to hear the solution to this whole ordeal?  
  


 

He stood and watched the doctor perform CPR on Sherlock.  
  
His temper rose.  
  


 

_Six months I have prayed for you to return, pleaded and dreamt and then you get yourself mushed in a car accident._

_And when I finally make up my mind to face you, you try to leave again!_   
  
_Bastard._   
  


 

He couldn't really put his finger on the origin of his sudden anger, he certainly knew that it had been there ever since he learned of Sherlock's return.

The feeling of betrayal.

Abandon.

Why it bubbled up now he had no idea.

He had expected it to crush down on him once Sherlock had opened his posh mouth.  
  
Why now?

 

Thirty times the doctor pressed his flat palms onto Sherlock's chest and massaged his heart.  
  
Two times ventilation.  
  
Check for pulse, breathing, some kind of vital sign.  
  
Nothing.  
  
Repeat.  
  
Thirty presses.  
  
Two ventilations.  
  
Check.  
  
Nothing.  
  
Thirty presses.  
  
Two ventilations.  
  
Check.  
  
Nothing.  
  


The doctor hesitated.

He looked at Mycroft, his hands falling to his sides.

Without a use.  
  


This was the moment that John Watson finally snapped.  
  
Where his instinct to fight and protect kicked in.  
  
His instinct to keep the one thing safe and alive that gave his life a purpose.  
  
No matter what it cost.

And if it was only to be able to yell at him in the end.  
  


 

He pushed through.  
  
Shoving the useless doctor aside, he pressed his ear to Sherlock's chest to check for himself that no vital signs were recognisable.  
  


 

_'Oh no you don't. Don't you dare, Sherlock!'_   
  


 

He started to climb onto Sherlock's bed.  
  
The doctor behind him tried to protest and the nurses made advances to pull him away, but Mycroft interrupted with his usual authoritive voice.  
  


 

_'Let him.'_   
  


 

A look at John, who was now fully seated on Sherlock's thighs, trying to avoid putting too much pressure on the injured leg.  
  


 

_'Bring him back, John.'_   
  


 

John didn't hear him.  
  
He intertwined his fingers, palm of one hand to the back of the other underneath and placed them on Sherlock's chest.  
  
Then he leaned on them.

With his full weight.  
  
He started pressing down, put as much of his body into it as he could.  
  


Quick.

Precise.

Experienced.  
  


It looked different from what the other doctor had done, Mycroft recognised.  
  


_Experienced._

_But in a different way._

_Things you learn in a war._

_On a battle field._   
  


 

John was counting, muttering under his breath.  
  
He hadn't reached twenty, but he was already breaking into a sweat from excertion.  
  


_Twenty-six._   
  


He pressed down even harder.  
  


_Twenty-seven._   
  


Another figure in the doorway.

Lestrade had come to visit and now stood- frozen to the spot- witnessing this surreal scene with a look of utmost horror on his face.  
  


_Twenty nince._   
  


_'Come on!'_   
  


_Thirty._   
  


He leaned down.

Without a second thought he adjusted the position of Sherlock's neck, unblocking his airway and pressed his open mouth to Sherlock's.  
  


 

_Two times._

_Two fillings of my lungs._

_Two fillings of my life._

_Pull back._   
  
_Wait._

_Check pulse._   
  
_Nothing._   
  
_Again._

 

John was covered in a thin film of sweat now.  
  
Relentlessly he pumped his hands on Sherlock's chest, making the motionless detective bounce among the mattress.  
  
It looked violent.  
  
Out of the corner of his eye he recognised the medical team standing there- idle and staring at the unusual scene.  
  


_'Adrenaline, Corporal! Now! Move!'_

 

The nurse finds her composure again and sets to work, pushing a needle into Sherlock's peripheral venous catheter.  
  


_'Come on! Come back to me, you bastard!'_   
  


 

Another hunch of his shoulders as he lifts his weight only to throw himself into the next press again with the entire weight of his body.  
  
As he reached thirty once again, his hand automatically cradled Sherlock's neck to unblock his airway once more and pressed a deeply indrawn breath from his lungs to

Sherlock's.  
  
He waited once more.

Giving his heart a chance to start its rhythm again before pressing his ear onto Sherlock's chest once more.  
  


_Nothing._

  
Defeat.   
  
For the fracture of s second.   
  
A sob built in John's chest.   
  
A cry of frustration.  
  


_Once again._   
  


He slammed his fist down onto Sherlock's chest.  
  
One second.   
  
Then Sherlock surged up and eagerly drew in a long breath.   
  
Like a man drowned.   
  
He looked up at john.   
  
His hand unintentionally clenched in the front of John's shirt.  
  
A look of utter relief on his face.   
  
Then John's soldier mode kicked in again.   
  
Duty done.   
  
Still angry.  
  
  
 _'Keep an eye on him, Corporal.'_   
  
  
He stopped for a second as he climbed off the bed.   
  
Realised what he just said.  
  
Habits.  
  
He shook his head and giggled- amused and sad at the same time.   
  
Slightly embarrassed.  
  
His eyes found Sherlock's once more.  
  
But only for a second.  
  
He gave a quick nod towards Mycroft and then left.  
  
On his way out he quickly glared at Lestrade.  
  
  
  
Sherlock stared after him.  
  
The sudden loss of contact to John burning on his skin like fire.  
  
His comforting heat gone. 

Leaving flames in its wake.  
  


_Flames of guilt and disappointment._   
  


He wanted to say something.  
  
Bring him back.  
  
Explain.  
  


 

_John._   
  
  


Ribs.  
  
Chest.  
  
Lungs.   
  
Everthing hurt.   
  
Not a sound.   
  
Just another silent tear from the corner of his eye.


	14. The messenger

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A friend pays a visit.  
> Sherlock sends a message.

 

 

 

Not a word.

Only a stare.

Confusion.

 

  
_John._   


 

Sherlock rested his head against the pillow.  
  
Emptiness filling his chest.

Every muscle hurt.

Every bone.

Every neuron.  


 

_John._   


 

He screwed his eyes shut, trying to chase the image away:  
  
John straddling him.

Avoiding his injured leg.

Being considerate.  


 

John's eyes showing several different emotions.

Hurt?

_Certainly._

_I hurt him._

 

  
Relief?

_Hopefully._

_I wish he will be able to forgive me._

_One day._   


 

Anger?

_Understandable._

_Again, I hurt him._   


 

Concern?

Worry?

_I just flatlined._

_Of course he's worried._   


 

He turned his head to look at his brother.

Mycroft was still standing beside his bed, looking at him in confusion.  


 

_'That was certainly unexpected.'_

He said.  


 

Sherlock reached up to cover his neck with his free hand.  


_'What? That my heart stopped beating or that John appeared, despite him having every right to avoid me. To hate me?'_   


 

His words were bitter.

Resigned.

A note of surrender in them.

Of finality.

He was starting to give up hope.  


 

_'Stop it, this instant, Sherlock!'_

Mycroft exploded.  


_'I will not see you give up on this man!_

_He is the closest you have ever come to a friend._

_He is more than just a flatmate._

_He is so much more._

_He_ _makes you happy, Sherlock and I will not allow that to end.'_

And with that Mycroft stormed out of the door.  


 

Once again, Sherlock wasn't sure if he was to blame for that kind of outburst.

If he had cocked it up brilliantly again, or was just a witness with no further understanding of the ongoing scene.  
  
He sighed.

Looked up at the ceiling.

Stretched his tired muscles.

He had been lying in the same position for too long.

 

 _This is going to be agonizingly tedious._..  


 

Someone cleared his throat and his eyes flew open immediately.  


_'John!'_   


 

_'Sorry, mate.'_

Lestrade looked uncomfortable.

He stared at his own feet for a moment, then walked over to Sherlock's bed.  


_'Brought you a little something for entertainment.'_

 

He held out a manila-file.

As Sherlock didn't move to take it, with one hand restrained and the other one at his neck, ready to help him speak, he placed it onto the table within reach of the bed.  


_'And this...'_

 

He reached into the inner pocket of his jacket.

 

_'...is from Anderson. Well...'_   


He held out a neatly wrapped thin package that obviously contained a CD.  


 

_'He figured that you weren't keen on seeing him after...well, all that has happened._

_But he asked me to give this to you._

_He said he hoped you'd get the message.'_   


 

_'It's a CD.'_

Sherlock stated the obvious.

Only lightly rolling his eyes.

He did have a considerably expensive, high quality sound system in his bedroom, but he certainly wasn't going to admit to anyone that he sometimes indulged in music other than classical concerts.  


 

_'Yeah, I could deduce as much, myself. Thanks.'_

A smile.

One of those heart-warming, infectuous smiles from Lestrade.  
  
Heart-warming?

When did he start using such adjectives?  


 

_Ever since you have madly fallen in love._   


 

Another sigh.  
  
He extended his hand and held his palm open for Lestrade to put the CD on.  
  
Clumsily he dropped the thing onto his stomach and tried to peel the tape and bow that was wrapped around it away with his single hand.

It took a bit of effort but he managed.

He was grateful that Lestrade didn't try to patronize him and offer his help.

He kept his distance and that was exactly what Sherlock needed.

If anyone would be allowed to come into his personal space it would be John.

Or Mycroft.  
  
The wrapping fell away and he lifted the CD to his face, studying it closely.  


_''Don't stop believing' by Journey.'_

He looked at Lestrade, dumbfounded.  


 

Lestrade snorted in amusement.

 

_'I suppose he means it as a kind of apology._

_From the moment he heard what had happened, well, he told off everyone who so much as contemplated you might have been a fraud._

_He got quite...passionate about it.'_   


 

Sherlock stared at him.

Then at the CD.

Then at his own broken body.  


 

_So many lives._

_So many people I have hurt._

_So many apologies and explanations due._   


 

He sighed once more.

His breath shaking.  
  
Before he could say anything a nurse burst into their 'moment' and walked over to him to check his catheter.

Then she put patches onto his chest- electrodes to monitor his heart rate- one more or less right underneath his heart and one on his side, on his ribcage, carefully pressing it onto the skin above broken bone.  
  
Then she re-adjusted his gown and checked his drip.  
  
Without uttering a word she walked out again.  


 

_'Quite a sunshine, that one is.'_

Lestrade remarked.  


 

_'I told her that the doctor in charge was having affairs with several other nurses- apart from her.'_   


 

_'Must have struck home, that._

_Though I don't understand why nurses fall for doctors at all._

_And then believe they are any special to those god-complexed dickheads.'_   


 

_'Not every doctor is a dickhead.'_

Sherlock retorted icily and Lestrade winced a bit.  


 

_'I didn't mean...'_

He began.  


 

_'Clearly.'_

Sherlock said curtly.

Then he broke into a grin.

The first one in months, he thought.  


 

_'Look, I know that at the moment he's outright mad at you and probably fighting the urge to throttle you just a bit._

_But you have to understand what he went through._

_He was a wreck, Sherlock._

_He kind of still is._

_But the first couple of weeks..._

_I kept a close surveillance on him._

_Even contacted your brother to bug the flat with some cameras so that we could have an eye on him._

_He was quite unstable some days, though I don't think he would have actually attempted...anything.'_

He put his hands into the pockets of his trousers.  


 

Sherlock squeezed his eyes shut.

Dragging in a deep breath, he tried desperately not to burst into tears at the sudden desperation surging through him.

He had imagined, in every possible form and facette, what it must have been like for John.

Suddenly alone again.

He had tried to picture him sitting inside of Baker Street, crying.

Shouting.

Being as desperate as he was now.

His subconscious had, thankfully, stubbornly avoided to picture John sitting in his bedroom, turning his gun in his hands, over and over again, contemplating.

Until now.

 

He bit his lip, fighting back a sob and forced himself to open his eyes again.

Get this over with.

It would be embarassing to allow his emotions to break through to the surface in front of Lestrade, but to send him away would imply nothing else, so there was no use- he had to get a grip on himself and save his tears for later.

It was ignominious enough.  


He looked at the detective.

Hands in his pockets.

Suit-bottoms.

He was on-duty.

Never wore anything but a suit while on duty.

He was here to visit him while on duty.

Probably spending his lunch break here.

Why did he see that only now?

Why was he that slow?

He shook his deductions away with a motion of his head.

For a second he swayed.  
  
Everything swayed.  


 

_'My life lies before me in shards.'_

 

  
He didn't even realize he had said it out loud until Lestrade suddenly stood by his side and put his hand on his shoulder.  


 

_'Look. I know you'll sort things out._

_It's just...tough._

_For both of you._

_But you are friends._

_God, if I didn't know better, I'd suspect you were in love even, you are that close.'_   


 

Sherlock looked away.

At his shoulder restraint.

Reached out and toyed with the fabric.  


 

_'If you want to, I can deliver a message for you...'_

Lestrade offered.

Remained silent after that.

A helping hand.

Take it or leave it.  


 

_'Tell him...'_

Sherlock hesitated.

So much he wanted to say.

Needed to say.

Not enough words.  


 

_Choose carefully, Sherlock._   


 

_'Tell him...'_

He drew a deep breath.

  
  
_'...I have no idea what to tell him._

_I have no idea how to fix this, Greg._

_I feel so...ashamed.'_   


 

He looked up at his friend with a thin film of tears shining upon his eyes.

His body betraying him again.  


 

_'Don't fret, Sherlock._

_Don't give up, I'm begging you._

_Your brother was right saying that he's what makes you happy._

_And vice versa._

_Jesus, I have known you for quite some years now, but never have I seen you this...content with yourself._

_Or anyone else.'_   


 

_'That's exactly what I'm afraid of losing._

_He makes me feel...right._

_In my own skin._

_And it somehow makes me happy to please him._

_For once I have someone who isn't repelled by my ways._

_Someone who truly likes me, despite of who I am._

_Someone who stays._

_I don't want to lose that._

_I don't want to lose him._

_He's...'_

 

  
_'Your best friend.'_

Lestrade finished for him.  


 

_'He's more than that.'_

He paused.

Lestrade's hand on his shoulder tensed just a tiny bit in surprise.  


 

_'Greg, you may not know this, because I never told you, but I do consider you to be my friend._

_But John...he is...he is nothing like an ordinary best friend._

_We've known each other before I knew him, but he was the one who showed me what friendship really is._

_That I was even capable of such a thing._

_That there are actually people who tolerate me as their friend._

_He helped me see that I already had friends._

_Few as they are...'_   


 

_'No need to explain, Sherlock._

_I know the value of a true mate._

_And the fear of losing him must be terrifying._

_Especially for you.'_   


 

Sherlock gave him a questioning and insulted stare.  


 

_'You, having a hard time trusting people and being very careful to let anyone see the real you._

_Look, I don't know how it came to all this, but I understand that you and John should never, under any circumstances, not be the best of friends that I have ever known.'_   


Lestrade himself was a bit astonished at his own words.

Sherlock only stared at him.  


 

_'You put words to feelings and thoughts I cannot even properly distinguish.'_   


 

_'Well. I suppose that's what friends are for.'_   


 

Sherlock snorted.  


 

_'Please, no more cheesy music citations._

_Anderson's CD is enough for one day. Or for a month.'_

He grinned.  


 

_'Though confused about it, I appreciate the gesture._

_You can tell him that.'_   


_'I certainly will.'_   


 

They fell into companiable silence for a bit while Sherlock still tried to think of the right words to have delivered to John.  
  
After almost twenty minutes, he placed his hand on Greg's arm, who was sitting on the chair Mycroft had placed next to his bed.  


_'I know what message I'd like you to deliver...'_


	15. Red leather diary

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John receives Sherlock's message.  
> He discovers a truth about his flatmate that finally sets things into motion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> From here it's only going to get better.  
> Promise. *wink*
> 
> And yes, I stole that rabbit anecdote from a recent interview of Ben.  
> And the quote about the sun and the moon and the tomb is from HIM's 'Funeral of hearts'- a song that I love ever since my teenage years.

 

 

 

John Watson dropped his phone into his lap with a sigh.

Then, bowing his head, he rubbed a hand over his face.  
  


 

_A message._   
  
_The. Message._   
  
_From him._   
  
_Why?_   
  


 

Why did this have to be such a fucking mess?  
  
He had just performed CPR on the man he loved.  
  
And yet he didn't know if he would ever be able to love him the way he thought he did.  
  
Or if he could ever possibly expect something alike love in return.  
  
True, their friendship outruled every relationship he, and the same was most definately even truer for Sherlock, had ever had, but how they could possibly clean up this mess, set things straight and continue, he had no idea.  
  
Desperation creeping into his heart.

Slowly.

 

_Bitch._   
  


 

Another heaving sigh.  
  


 

_I am so mad at you, Sherlock._

_And yet I cannot bring myself to turn away from you._

_I feel like a sun shining above the tomb of my hopes and feelings for you._

_And you are the moon, painting it in a completely different light._

_Vulnerable and pale._

_We both exist around the same thing. That stone. So cold underneath your light, warmed under mine._

_We both circle it and yet we are never there at the same time. Never meet, never touch._

_How can I possibly understand what's going on inside of your head?_

_And would you ever truly understand what's inside of my heart?_   
  


_A message I do not understand._

_Red leather diary._

_What on earth are you trying to achieve with this?_

_Let me read your diary (as if ever you kept such a girlish thing, remember? Like a scapbook.) and then everything will be explained and understood and we lived happily ever after?_

_I doubt this would be the way it worked out._   
  


 

A final sigh.

Then he got to his feet and moved into the kitchen.

With the kettle clicked on he hesitantly peeked around the hallway door at Sherlock's bedroom door.  
  
Could he dare to open it?

This was personal.

Far too personal.

A bedroom is like a canvas of your soul.

Where you store your secrets and desires and memories.  
  


 

_How can I violate that without your permission?_

_Permission you gave me through this cryptic message that Greg just delivered._   
  
_Do not do this, Sherlock._

_Don't play with me again._

_Baskerville hurt enough._   
  


 

He moved without another thought.

Curiosity taking over.  
  


 

_This is it._

_This is our turning point._

_And if I'll get hurt I at least know what to do next._

_Then I'll have a reason to run, a reason to scream and shout and let you know about all the things that made me mad and maybe I will cry in frustration because it would break my heart, Sherlock, to walk away and leave you behind as if I abandoned a soldier in need._

_Because you will need me._

_You so will._

_And I need you._

_But sometimes the things we need are not the things that are the most healthy._   
  
_Please let this be right, Sherlock._

_Make me understand, because I want to understand so desperately how you could hurt me so much._

_I want to see and be a little mad and then eventually pull you into a hug when you bastard least expect it and I will fight the urge to kiss you and be the brave soldier I was born to be and then we will live._

_Just live._

_You and me._

_In this flat._

_Until god know when._   
  


 

He turned the knob and pushed slightly.

The door opened without the expected creak.  
  
A deep breath to steel himself.

Blink.

Once.

Twice.

Step.

Inside he was enveloped in darkness.

Sherlock had kept his blinds shut that day.

That day...  
  
He moved towards the window to his right and opened it.

The smell of the room was horribly stale after six months and yet John could still make out Sherlock's particular scent.

His aftershave.

The detergent with which they washed their clothes and linen.

His shampoo on his pillow.

Wood and books and metal.

Rosin.

He turned towards the bookshelf.

Sherlock had no desk so this would be the place where he most likely kept such a thing as a diary.  
  
John still couldn't picture him keeping a diary.

He smiled at the ridiculousness of it and shook his head.

He stepped in front of the bookcase and knelt.  
  


Red leather diary...

It was obvious.

Blatantly obvious amongst all of the old foliants and editions of classical literature that he owned.

Sherlock only kept the most basic and personal stuff in here.

Things that were nobody's business.

Everything else was in the sitting room.

Just like John.

  
He had barely been in here at all.

Once after the Adler woman had drugged him.

He had carried him into the flat and placed into bed completely oblivious to anything but his patient.

He had covered him with a blanket and left.

And that was it.  
  
He felt like an intruder now, looking at Sherlock's posessions, the things that had some sort of sentimental value to him, even if he might deny it.  
  


The red leather diary was the very first in line on the top shelf.

The oldest?

He pulled it out and stared at it.

It was certainly worn- apart from being barely used.

He could tell from the outside alone, that there wasn't much writing done inside of it.

Usually the pages show signs of wear and tear.

There would be pictures and other things glued inside, memorabilia of good times gone.

Not so many for Sherlock as it seemed.

There was barely a third of the pages used, judging from the outside, but the spine was broken from repeatedly opening and closing it.

He kept looking inside often, then.  
  
John got to his feet and settled for sitting on the bed.

His leg still wasn't very keen on kneeling.

He lifted the lid.  
  


**'The Adventures of...'**

 

It said on the first page and someone had added 'SHERLOCK HOLMES' in neat capital letters.

This was not a child's hand.

John recognised it from the case file about the missing missile plans.

Mycroft.  
  
Curious, he turned a page and bit his lip.

This was so 'a bit not good'.

But then again Sherlock wanted him to read this.

Why?  
  


 

_No point in wondering._

_Gather data, John._   
  


 

There was a pencil drawing of what John was fairly sure must be black beard written over in Mycroft's handwriting again.  
  
  
 ** _'To the tenth anniversary of your birth._**  
 ** _One of the happiest days of my life._**  
  
  
 _ **My Dear Captain Sherlock, the curly,**_  
  
 _ **I am leaving this book in your posession to take notes of your adventures as a sole Captain now.**_  
 _ **Use it for navigation or as a source of comfort in the eye of a storm.**_  
  
 _ **You should know that even if I have to leave your side for an adventure of my own now, which I don't yet know whether I am going to like or not, that I am forever loyal to your genius and wit as Captain, that I'll follow if you call and will never doubt your abilities to conquer the endless ocean of science on your own.**_  
  
 _ **The time we had together is unforgettable to me and will be a source of inspiration and comfort for the remainder of my days upon this ship, though it will certainly be far less entertaining to spent my time alone on the vessel 'Cambridge'.**_  
  
 _ **I want to assure you again, that the decision to leave you on your own was not an easy one to make and that I already deeply regret the way we parted.**_  
  
 _ **But whenever the tides run high, remember my dear brother, that there will always be a safe harbour for you to come to.**_  
  
 _ **Take good care of mother and don't be bothered too much by what the sharks have to say.**_  
  
 _ **Yours in loyalty and respect,**_  
 _ **Your fellow conspirator,**_  
 _ **Always,**_  
  
 _ **Captain Mycroft, the ginger.**_  
  
  
John had to surpress a giggle as well as a tear at the same time.

This wasn't just intruding Sherlock's privacy.

He had just invaded a tender moment between him and his brother and despite the funny nicknames they had called each other, it was utterly heartwarming to see that there once had been a time where they had got along well.  
  
With trepidation he turned another page.  
  
Now it was definately Sherlock's handwriting.

Neat, juvenile and hurried.

Just like it was still.

  
  
It was a testament of things he had experienced around his family home and school.

Pictures showing a young boy with curly black hair (neatly trimmed, yet betraying those curls) in a school uniform or a jumper and shirt combination at home.

For a brief moment John wondered who had taken those pictures when he found one of Sherlock, about ten years of age grinning into the camera next to a young woman who made 'bunny ears' with her fingers behind his head.

A selfie of him and his nanny, probably.

John couldn't help but sigh again.

A warm feeling spreading inside his chest upon seeing his friend so carefree, so happy and content and yet a certain cold about the knowledge that it was not his mother he was sharing those moments and emotions with.  
  
He tore his eyes away from that picture and continued.  
  


**'My first sabre'**

One read.

And a picture of Sherlock in full pirate gear with a real budgie on his shoulder as a make-do-parrot holding a big wooden sabre.  
  


 

Then:

 

**'My first prisoner'**

Sherlock holding a rabbit so tightly to his chest, John was afraid he might have squeezed the poor thing to death.  
  


 

He turned another page.

This one made John's heart clench.  
  


 

**'My most difficult hour'**

Underneath, a young Sherlock had glued an invitation card for the funeral of his father.  
  


 

John shut the book for a moment.

Closed his eyes.

Jesus Christ.

It couldn't get worse than that, could it?  
  


 

**'My first success'**

 

It read.

Sherlock holding out a letter and smiling madly at the camera.

Next to the picture he had again glued a letter which turned out to be his recommendation to skip an entire term of school.  
  


 

The next entry was from a point in his life much later.

It said:  
  


 

**'My first day at Uni.**

**Scary...'**   
  


 

Then:  
  


 

**'My first flat'**

And a picture of a street called 'Canal Street'.

Then a scrap of paper stating 'University of Manchester'.  
  


 

John chuckled.

This explained Sherlock's knowledge of _'How to spot if someone's gay'_.

Living in the one street in Manchester most famous for its gay community certainly had taught him a thing or two.  
  


The next page must hold a bulky object, John mused as the paper was wavy and dented.

He turned it to find a patient ID wrist band.  
  
Sherlock's writing said:

 

**'My greatest breakdown'**   
  


John studied the ID a little closer.

It simply said

 _'HOLMES, S.A.C.'_ ,

_'1976-01-06'_

and

 _'O pos'_.  
  


John wondered what the letters A. and C. stood for.  
  
Then he turned to the last page that had been written upon and his heart froze realising why Sherlock had asked him to look at this.

What message he tried to deliver.

And John very much wanted to kick himself for ever doubting him, even if it was only for the briefest of seconds and frankly in a moment of confusion upon finding out that the past six months of your life had been a lie.  
  
He abandoned the book on the bed and stormed out of the door.

Grabbing his jacket and keys he prayed that it wasn't too late for them.

 

That what had been, could be fixed once more.

Just as they had done after every fight they ever had.  
  


The way it had been was the thing John Watson chased to after on his way to St.Mary's hospital.

 

  
The front door fell closed with a bang, but the red leather diary still lay upon the bed.  
  
Sherlock's unique, adult handwriting spelled out the words:

 

**'My first true friend.**

  
**My best friend, John.'**   
  


 

Underneath there was another selfie.

Of him and John, that John had taken himself when they had been in Dartmoor.  
  
And underneath that picture was another note:  
  


**'Before I drugged his coffee to prove a theory.**

**I was wrong.**

**He forgave me.**

**Thank god.'**


	16. The Watson Way

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things move forwards.  
> John's still angry. A bit.  
> Sherlock gets what he deserves.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It took me a while with this chapter to get the mood right.  
> John is at a point where his perspective is pretty tough to write and I didn't want him to forgive Sherlock too easily, and yet I can't let him be too mad for too long. I think he's had his share of rollercoaster emotions and I am as desperate as him for the resolution of this whole mess.  
> Still, Sherlock gets his share of punishment.  
> But please let me know if there are bits to improve!
> 
> Also, I refrained from writing Sherlock's explanation of the fall in any detail because  
> a) I couldn't be arsed to crack my skull about how he really did it and make it fit the plot  
> b) I do not have the power of Moftiss  
> c) everything I would come up with would be absolutely lame compared to the real solution we'll see on Jan 1.
> 
> So let's concentrate on the sentiment, alright?

 

 

 

John Watson waited.

He was good at this.

Waiting for an ambush.

Waiting for backup.

Waiting for the helicopter to take you out of a warzone- a land of devastation.  
  


Waiting for the person you love to wake up.  
  


John Watson waited like a man starving.

He starved for Sherlock's voice.

Finally again, vibrating through the room like a giant cat caught in a cello.

His eyes to focus their attention on him, and only on him, with an intensity that made you think you might burst into flames any second.

His smile.

The crinkled skin around his eyes when he truly, honestly smiled.

For John.

Only ever for John.

His hair.

That ridiculous tousled mess of meticulously arranged curls.

His smell.

That shade of spice and musk that every man carries, mingled with some hint of coriander of all things and now- sweat.

Sherlock's cat-like body hygiene abandoned due to his injuries.

He won't be happy about that.

Not one bit.  
  


John finally felt like he could breathe again.

Like a weight lifted off his chest, that Sherlock himself had placed there.

Gradually, he had piled those emotions onto John's heart like the books and papers on his desk or basically all over the sitting room.

With every day, every moment they had spent together, the meaning of John's feelings for him became heavier and heavier until the moment the heart beneath was ripped apart and away by Sherlock's apparent death and the sheer burden to carry them any longer was too much to bear on his own for Doctor Watson.

Now it felt like Sherlock had come to his aid, had lain his big, delicate hands underneath and lifted the weight.

Carrying it until he himself could no longer bear it.

How long would it take until he would do something, say something that would make it all crash down onto John again?

John had no illusions as to Sherlock's likeliness to reciprocrate his love.

He was a man of the mind.

Everything else was just transport after all.

And even if he had grown to love John in a way best friends do, how could John expect any more of him?

It had been hard enough for Sherlock to come to the conclusion that they were indeed friends, certainly.

The way he had reacted in Dartmoor was proof enough to John that Sherlock might be an expert on any topic imaginable, the more scientific the better, but that he utterly lacked anything resembling a normal understanding of his own emotions.

John did not dare to think what might have caused it or if it was just the way things were in their family, considering Mycroft being the same-type of 'cold fish'.

 

No.

Scratch that.

Sherlock wasn't a cold fish.

Not at all.

He was a master of pretense.

A high fidelity actor.

But when it came to true, raw emotion Sherlock was as lost as a primary school kid forced to face the concept of quantum physics.

He certainly tried to understand, for it was bugging him to not be an expert in those areas as well, but he failed to see the joy and pleasure in indulging in the nicer emotions.

He only ever saw the bad ones, the hurt, how vulnerable it makes us, the damage it might do to him.

He valued the pleasure not more than the pain and therefore saw no point for himself in feeling anything akin to normal emotions at all.

All that mattered was his mind.

He let John take care of the rest.

And thinking about that, John did himself not dare to try and interpret this level of trust as anything beyond Sherlock's screwed up view of best friend/brothers in arms/I trust you to shoot when I need it- obligations.

Things friends do for each other.

They take care.

Sherlock, by providing John with a purpose and the thrill that he needs.

John, by taking care of Sherlock's basic needs and his inabilities to function in a world of slow, ordinary, sentimental people.  
  
He led Sherlock through the dark and scary woods of normality.

And Sherlock showed John the fun in chasing the witch or the wolf out in that forest that was London.  
  


 

He was right in the middle of fighting down another panic attack- his own Hänsel and Gretel metaphor reminding him of Moriarty's sick game with the gingerbread man- when a knock on the door startled him back to reality.

To a normal breathing pattern.  
  


 

_Get a grip, Watson._

_Duty's on._

 

  
Molly Hooper's head popped through the barely opened door.  
  


 

_'Oh, hey...'_

She said with her usual cheerfulness.

_'Is it alright if I...?'_  
  


 

_'Yes, yes. Come in. Thank you, Molly. Thanks for stopping by.'_

John got up and offered her his chair by Sherlock's bed.

She was, as usual, carrying three bags and her jacket in her thin arms.  
  


_'Thanks. So, how is he? My, he looks crushed.'_

Molly mused.

Then muttered 'oops' when she saw John's pained expression.

Bit not good.

_'I mean, he...'_  
  


 

_'It's all right. I get it. Excuse me, if I laugh about it later, when I'm sure he's alright.'_  
  


 

_'Sure, sure. Sorry.'_

She looked at the silent figure on the bed.

_'I'm just glad he made it out of there. Imagine him going through all that and then dying in a car crash on his way from the airport...'_  
  


 

John's gaze snapped from Sherlock to Molly.

She didn't notice.

 

  
_'I told him he should take care. Suppose he's not to blame for just sitting in a car.'_   
  


 

_'Molly...'_

John began.

A horrible suspicion forming on the brink of his mind.

He closed his eyes in anticipation of the confirmation that would hit him like a train.  
  
She finally looked at him.  
  


 

_'I'm so relieved I don't have to lie to you anymore, John. It's been bugging me all this time.'_

Her face as cheerful as if she had just told him she got a new boyfriend.

Who wasn't a psychopath.  
  


 

John's eyes snapped open, his head tilting forward.

He looked at her with a mixture of hatred and reluctance.  
  


_'What do you mean?'_

He gritted through his teeth.  
  


 

_'Well it was difficult not to let anything slip and...oh god, you haven't talked to him yet.'_

She looked at him in horror.  
  


 

_'You knew?'_

He blurted out, not longer capable of containing his anger at her.  
  


 

_'Yeah, well...I helped.'_

She stated, voice as small as a mouse.  
  


 

 _'You...?'_  
  
John jumped out of his seat and started pacing.

A thousand thoughts racing through his head all at the same time.

_'You knew about this all this time and didn't say a word? You saw what it was doing to me and you didn't even think about dropping a hint? Anything?'_

He snarled at her.

He knew it wasn't justified.

Not really.

She wasn't the one who had deceived him in the first place.  
  


 

_'I'm sorry John, I had to promise him not to tell anyone...please don't be mad. I...'_

She struggled for words.  
  
It took him a few moments to digest that.

To bring sense to the words.

Her pleading.  
  


 

 _'No. No it's alright, Molly. It's... I'm not mad at you. You were just another puppet in his game. You were just as used by him as me.'_  
  
John took his jacket and made to leave.

His hand at the door handle, Molly jumped out of her chair, dropping her bags, trying to stop him.  
  


 

_'Dont! Don't leave him now! He needs you.'_  
  


 

 _'Yeah, well I needed him, too.'_  
  
And with that he stormed out.  
  
  
  
  


* * *

  
Of course Molly followed him.

Good girl that she is.

Always trying to bring harmony to everything.

Always seeing the good side of things.

Restore the balance of the universe.  
  


 

_'John!'_  
  


 

_'Leave it Molly. I need a break.'_

He kept walking.

Eyes fixed on the horizon.

There's a good soldier.  
  


 

_'You don't understand! Moriarty left him no other choice!'_

Her words echoed in his ears. He froze. Then finally turned.  
  


 

_'What?'_  
  


 

 _'He set up some sort of trap and Sherlock... Well he knew something like this would happen. I don't know what exactly went on between those two, but he was really desperate when he came to me asking for help.'_  
  
That stung. Beyond all the pain, that was, what hurt the most.  
  
He had asked Molly for help but not him.  
  
He looked at the door.

Contemplated his options.

 

Leave-

and you'll lose the one thing that makes your life worth living.

The thing that makes you most happy.

The thing that makes you go to sleep and wake up with a contented smile upon your face.

Lose the only person you ever truly loved.

Forget about three continents.

They're nothing in the shadow of the light that is Sherlock.

 

  
Stay-

Fights, insults, madness, sulks, violin at three in the morning, danger, hurt, disappointment, all of the above.  
  
And a red leather diary.

  
  
The final decision was surprisingly easy to make.

For once, he was tired of the pain, of running away.

And then he knew, with a clarity of a thousand suns burning in the sky that he would never, could never leave this man.

He needed him, just as much as Sherlock needed him.

And that nothing he would ever do could change that.

They were meant to be driving each other up the wall.

And then crash down again in a fit of adrenaline and giggles.  
  


 

_...My best friend, John._

_He forgave me._

_Thank god._...  
  


 

With those words echoing through his mind, John Watson made his final decision.

Only death himself would be able to lead him off track now and sod that bastard, he had defeated him times before. 

Sherlock Holmes had a childlike perspective when it came to his own feelings.

His emotional potential had been kept small and uncared for like an unwanted flower.

It was wilted and he was aware of it.

But it wasn't his fault.

And so he was grateful for John to stay, even after he had drugged him and repeatedly taken him for granted, treated him ill and insulted him.

Because he knew that that wasn't the right thing to do and he expected him to leave.

Like everyone else had always done.

The surprise and joy to find that John stayed made an impression on Sherlock that John could hardly imagine.

What must it feel like to be so emotionally crippled, not to put too fine a point on it?

How must it have stung to see all those people's faces, hear their insults, watch them leave?

And what a feeling must it have been like for him to finally realise, that one person, at least, stayed for who he was?

Liked him for who he was and wanted more of it?

Every day?

Agreed to live with him and look after him, wash his clothes and cook his meals?

Treat his wounds and see him at his most vulnerable and his most vicious and still like him?  
  


 

John Watson was the one who stayed.

Sherlock Holmes was grateful for that, if unable to properly express it.

John Watson understood.

But that was also the reason why he was still mad at him for leaving him behind and not asking for his help, his abilities to assist him in that final, deadly problem.

He used to consult John in these matters. Matters of emotion that he himself couldn't grasp.

He used to rely on him and his advice in those things.

How he could actually do this to his only friend was beyond John's comprehension.

How he could hurt him so much.

How he could kick his trust and loyalty with both feet and leave John standing in the rain whilst Sherlock ran right into the eye of a thunderstorm.

Alone.

Knowing that all John ever wanted, needed and offered, was to help him.

And he denied him that.

He left him useless and powerless as to change the situation.

And Sherlock was acutely aware that that was John's greatest weakness.

His greatest fear.  
  
It wouldn't be easy, but he would have to teach Sherlock his lesson about the way you treat your friends.  
  
Because no matter how much of an emotionally inexperienced genius you are, you don't just stage the most dramatic way of killing yourself in front of your only friend and then expect things to be as they were, once you come back.

Even Sherlock ought to know that that was the mother of 'a bit not good'.

The problem John faced now, was that, with Sherlock being oblivious to such things as the consequences of his own actions and their effect on other people, he had to make Sherlock understand that this was something that must never happen again.

But with the genius' masterly skill of stubbornness, John knew the only way to make him see and understand, was by teaching him the hard way.

The painful way.

For both of them.

The Watson way.  
  
  


Finally, at the end of a long train of thoughts and conclusions, bracing himself for what was to follow and swallowing the rising bile of his anger, John made for the door. 

Molly, unsure as to what was going to happen, tried to stop him. 

Sort of.  
  


 

_'Would you please leave us alone, Molly? I think me and him need to talk about quite a few things right now and it might...get nasty.'_  
  


 

_Embarassingly emotional._  
  


 

_'John.'_

She looked unconvinced.

Molly was very much aware that John once had been a soldier.

She knew what he was capable of and she usually respected him for it.

Now she was thinking of domestic violence victims and was on alert.

More assuring words were required.  
  


 

_'Don't worry. We'll fix this. But he needs to know what consequences his actions have had. He also needs to know how much he was missed.'_  
  


 

_By me._  
  


 

John gave her his most reassuring smile.

Sherlock would have seen through it right away. 

Not Molly, though.

Hopelessly optimistic Molly.  
  


_'Okay.'_

Hesitant.  
  
Then, with a final, very awkward pat to his shoulder she left.  
  


John's anger somewhat remained.  
  
  


 

 

* * *

It starts with a crinkle of his eyes.

It always does.  
  
John's seen it so often in his time at Baker Street that he knows exactly when Sherlock is awake and only pretending to sleep or if he really just came around the corner.  
  


With an uncomfortable shift in his chair he set his mask in place.

Angry, disappointed John.

He could do that.

It was believable.

He concentrated all the dark emotions he had felt over the course of the last six months and let them show on his face for Sherlock to see.

The man had no idea what agony John had gone through, how guilty he had felt and he wouldn't let him get away with it that easily.  
  
Though John knew how it would end.

He wouldn't be, couldn't be angry forever.

But he also knew that Sherlock Holmes hated nothing more than uncertainty.

Not having all the data.

Unknown outcomes.  
  
Sure, it was a cruel thing to do, if he thought about it, a decent human being wouldn't play his friend like that, but that was exactly the point, wasn't it?

What had Sherlock's scheme done to him?

Had it not been the very definition of cruel to lie to him like that?

To make him go through something like that?

To let him feel responsible for the death of his best friend?

Hadn't Sherlock played him as well?  
  


 

~~~

 

  
 _'John...'_

For a second John's mask of anger risked to drop for one of honest concern so raspy and hoarse was Sherlock's voice.

He still had to place his fingers over the opening of the tracheostomy.

His fingers were slightly shaking.  
  


 

_Damn you, transport._  
  


 

_'You're mad.'_

  
  
_Oh, brilliant deduction, brain. Thanks for stopping by!_   
  


 

He looked at John expectantly.

Waited for a reply.

The outburst of anger so obviously bubbling inside of him.

Tears, even.

Anything.

A reaction.

Something to grab a hold of the situation.  
  
John said nothing.

Looked sour.

A sneer of a grin.

He closed his eyes and drew a deep breath.

Trying to contain his anger.

Not to snap.

 

Sherlock was silent for a bit.

Tried to find the right words.

John's body giving him nothing to work with except that he was angry.  
  
Understandable.

How can you possibly find the right thing to say?

How do you explain?

Make it whole again?

He only came up with the lamest possible thing to say.  
  


 

 _'I'm sorry. John, I'm so sorry...'_  
  
And in the moment he had said it, he knew that it had changed nothing.  
  
John simply held up a hand to silence him.  
  


 

Another try.

Direct approach.

  
  
 _'Let me explain... I...'_

But John only extended his hand further into his direction, as if trying to shove him away, signaling him to shut up and wait.

With his other hand he reached inside of his pocket, got his notepad out.

Then he wrote something down.  
  


Sherlock failed to understand the situation.

But then that was nothing knew to him.

This was highly delicate terrain of sentiment and he was very aware that every tread he made could be his last one.

A field of landmines.  
  


John dropped the little biro accompanying the notebook into his lap and held the page out for Sherlock to read.  
  


 

_'You may explain in every detail how you could do this to me. I don't care how you faked it. I want to know why.'_  
  


 

 _'Why are you...?'_  
  
Sherlock didn't get it.

Why was he writing it down and not saying it?

Just as he lifted his hand back to his throat, John dropped his biro again and offered him another page to read:  
  


 

_'I'm not talking to you as long as I can't be sure I'll not say harsh things that I will regret one day._

_And because I don't trust myself enough not to cry._

_And I won't let you see me do that.'_  
  


 

Sherlock thought about it.

  
  
_'I've seen you cry before when you had nightmares.'_   
  


 

Another moment of pen on paper.  
  


_'Do not make me leave, Sherlock.'_  
  


 

When John lowered the notepad, Sherlock's eyes flinched away from him.

He didn't dare look him in the eye.

He felt so utterly lost inside this bed, with his broken bones and broken voice, unable to do the one thing he had wanted to do all this time he had been away, dreamt of doing, hoped would clear the situation and mend it all- a hug.

Just a simple hug.

An everyday, innocent sign of affection, but something he only ever granted Mrs Hudson or Mycroft to do to him so far.

Surely John would understand better if he delivered his apology with a hug. 

Would see that it was something special for Sherlock to allow himself and express his desperation to make it up to him.

John knew how he worked- emotionally.

He knew that it wasn't easy for him to put his feelings into words.

That he sometimes even failed to see that he ought to say anything at all.

Certainly a kiss would show John his real inner state of mind without the tedious act of finding the right words.

But he could hardly do it now, could he, for it would be highly inappropriate without any warning whatsoever.

And could he even be sure John would like it?

Would reciprocate?

Sure, it was certainly easy for John to pinpoint his feelings towards Sherlock as love, with his highly developed sentimental skills and his experience, but had he?

At all?

Found a way to love him?

Did he feel anything more for him than just true regard?

With any other person, Sherlock would have asked John for advice.

Overcome his reluctance to put into words what he felt and tried to explain.

And then John would have told him.

And he would have trusted him and done what he suggested.

Now this was as tricky a situation as ever he had endured.

And probably the most terrifying.

Sod giant monster hounds his drug-addled brain had created.

Sod the golem, sod the chinese circus smugglers and sod Jefferson Hope trying to kill him.

Those fears were nothing but a physical reaction to stimulus.

But this- this fear of losing his foundation of mind, his grounding, his conductor of light...

He had become so dependent on John's guidance and assistance, his insisting ways to force food and tea onto him, his mere presence in the flat that soothed his nerves so much, he had found himself an insomniac once more, lacking John's comfort and smell and the everyday, mundane noises he produced whilst moving about the flat.

Or just his breathing.

Sometimes, when he couldn't sleep but desperately needed it to process data, he had imagined John on the sofa, sleeping.

His chest peacefully rising and falling in a steady, soothing rhythm it had taken only minutes to send Sherlock to slumbers.  
  
How could he ever tell him about all this?

Express the panic inside of him as he had stood on the ledge of that roof?

Explain the horror he had felt seeing John run towards him, asking people to let him through because: _'He's my friend. He's my friend!'_ in a broken voice.

Could he dare and try to make him see by telling him?

Or would that drive him away, scare him off and Sherlock would lose all those things he so desperately needed to exist now?  
  
A kiss.

He had never felt another person's lips on his, never grasped the concept of it, the point of it, until now.

Until the only person he ever trusted enough to lower his defences to such a degree and offer his most vulnerable part was sitting right in front of him and just about to leave him forever.

How could he not expect John to storm out and be gone?  
  


He had to make this right again.

 

  
Silence. 

A deep breath.

Then:  
  


 

 _'Please don't.'_  
  
Lame.

Simple.

But pleading.

He was pleading.

Sherlock Holmes was pleading for the only person he ever cared for not to abandon him.

John must see that.

Hear that.  
  


 

_Oh god, please._  
  
  


 

Pen on paper.

_'Go on then.'_  
  


  
It took him a few seconds to decide his approach.

Something inside of him told him that complete honesty would be the approach of choice.

John would appreciate it.

Wouldn't accept anything else.

  
  
 _Just maybe leave out some of the more embarassing needs and sentimental thoughts that have cluttered your mind palace lately._  
  
 _Show him that you are human._

_Prove to him that you really are the man he believes you are._

_And more._  
  


 

He pressed his fingers to his throat again and looked John straight in the eyes.  
  
Then he spoke.

And saw John Watson's heart sink.  
  


When he was finished, he felt relieved, for John had not bolted instantly, but he sensed by the tension around the doctors eyes that the rift between them wasn't yet resolved.

Eventually, John got up and panic flared up in Sherlock's chest, but John left his jacket on the chair and simply started pacing the room, obviously trying to sort his thoughts and feelings and Sherlock exhaled in relief.

Then, with a weak smile that was all Sherlock could have wished for and everything he clung to, John picked up his notepad once more and wrote:  
  


_'Go to sleep. I'll fix your release papers.'_  
  



	17. An explanation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Extended POV from John.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The last chapter still feels kind of odd to me (I don't know what exactly) so here's John's extendend POV to make things clearer.

 

 

 

The moment John Watson heard his own name spoken in that unmistakable baritone, his heart nearly gave out.

He swallowed hard, tried to focus on the task at hand and prepared himself to endure what must be the most difficult and important minutes of his life.  
  
Not getting shot or falling ill with a fever afterwards.

Not even the past six months of loneliness and dread.

The awful duty of burying the person you love, the staying behind.  
  


This was a turning point.

And no matter how certain John Watson was that he would never be able to walk away from this man and no matter how empathetic and understanding you are-

you can still get hurt by the naked cruelty of the truth.  
  


He feared Sherlock's explanantion.

His words of apology.

He feared that the man he lost was gone forever and that whatever had happened in the time gone by had changed Sherlock.

His Sherlock.  
  
He tried to imagine the worst things he could say.

Prepare for the worst and you can only be positively surprised.  
  
He didn't expect what was to follow.  
  


 

 _'I'm sorry, John. I'm so sorry.'_  
He said.  
  


 

And that was that.

It was by all means the apology he had waited for and expected.

No matter how clever Sherlock was with words- once it concerned emotion he developed a sort of selective mutism.

And still it stung.

The simplicity of it.  
  


For a second a hand of ice clenched around John's heart and he held out his hand to stop Sherlock from saying any more.

Just a moment to gather his wits.

Why he reacted so strongly, he had no idea.

Was it relief to hear him speak?

To have proof that he was still alive and awake and talking to him?

Or was it the grief that had finally turned into anger and now took hold of him?  
  
But then Sherlock spoke again.

And the cold wave returned with a ferocity that almost choked him.  
  


 

_'Let me explain... I...'_  
  


 

He gave his still outstretched hand a little shake, indicating Sherlock to shut up.  
  


 

_You can't lose it like this, Watson._

_Not in front of him._  
  


 

He wanted to say something, scream all his frustration at Sherlock and at the same time he desperately wanted to touch him, check that he was truly alright.

Soothe him and end all of this misery.  
  
He couldn't. 

Drawing in the breath before the words, he knew that if he opened his mouth now, nothing helpful would come out of it.

It would either be terrible swear words and insults or sobs.

Neither of it was acceptable now.  
  
A sudden idea flashed across his mind and he reached inside of his pocket to get his notepad out.  
  


 

_Writing it down will be easier._

_You can control the words._

_They're more neutral that way._  
  
 _I won't say a word until I know all the facts._  
  
 _It is unwise to theorise without all the data._

_You bastard._  
  


 

He dropped the pen.  
  


 

_'You may explain in every detail how you could do this to me. I don't care how you faked it. I want to know why.'_  
  


 

_'Why are you...?'_

Of course Sherlock didn't get it.  
  
He was too absorbed in his own head at the moment.

Understandable.

John once more had to be the man to lead them through this.

Sherlock needed his help to sort it out.

Again, understandable.

But why now and not then.

With small sigh he picked up his pen again.  
  


 

_'I'm not talking to you as long as I can't be sure I'll not say harsh things that I will regret one day._

_And because I don't trust myself enough not to cry._

_And I won't let you see me do that.'_  
  
  


 

Sherlock obviously processed that thought quickly.

With a tiny hint of confusion he said:  
  


 

_'I've seen you cry before when you had nightmares.'_  
  
  


_True._

_But those nightmares are nothing compared to the last six bloody months of my life, Sherlock._

_Or better:_

_Not life._

_Mere existence._  
  


 

Another reply.

Carefully chosen words.

A threat.

But also an outstretched hand to take.  
  


 

_Do not fuck this up._  
  


_'Do not make me leave, Sherlock.'_  
  


 

A thousand thoughts chasing each other inside of his head.

And each one expressed on his face for the fracture of a second.

He was desperately trying to find a way to tell John, to make him see.

So far, so obvious.  
  


And it nearly killed John to sit still and observe his confusion and fear, but he had to remain passive.

He had to show him the cold shoulder and make him see, rub it in his face that he had done the most horrible thing he was capable of.

He almost killed his best friend.  
  


 

_'Please don't.'_

Sherlock whispered.

 

And the pleading in his voice was what made John Watson almost cringe in pain.

He had never seen him so small, so open, so vulnerable than in this moment and the fact that he put all that on display for John, like he had opened up his chest to show him what he looked like on the very inside made John stronger in his determination never to leave him ever again.

Because even if he had asked Molly for help, even if he had deceived him, the first thing he had asked for whilst being barely conscious was him.

Him- John Watson.

**Hamish.**

And that was all he ever needed as the living proof that Sherlock Holmes cared and loved him in a way God only knows how to describe or categorize.  
  


 

_'Go on then.'_  
  


 

And a few moments passed in which Sherlock braced himself.

Put all fear and doubts aside and explained.

He stopped a few times and just stared into half distance as if the memory was too vivid, too recent and flooded his mind like a tsunami tide, overwhelming him and leaving him lost for words.  
  
By the time he had finished he looked exhausted.

And anxious as to John's reaction.  
  
How can you possibly find words to answer such a report?

Sherlock had sacrifised his life (if only symbolically) and his reputation to save him.

He had taken the blame and killed off the man he used to be.

Everything he had worked for in the past seven years.

And he had done it all for John.  
  


It was too much.

Far too much things to contemplate, absorb, process.

Too much to sit still and think about it.

John got up and started pacing.

A military habit he never quite could give up.  
  
It was all there.

All the words he had been waiting for.

A perfectly sound explanation, a heartwrenching one.

A reason for the cruelty, a name for the pain and a light at the end of a tunnel.  
  
And still- John Watson was furious.

Not at Sherlock.

Not exclusively.

At Moriarty, at the Yarders, at every idiot in London who had bought a newspaper covering Kitty Riley's fake story.

At Mycroft.

At the hospital for not putting Sherlock under closer surveillance of his heart condition.

At Molly, at God, at Harry and Sarah and at the world in general.

And at himself.

And the two of them.  
  
Men in general are not comfortable talking about their feelings.

More so if they are english.

And even more if they learned from an early age not to show what's going on inside of you to shield and protect yourself from the onslaught of others.

Both John and Sherlock had learned that lesson ages ago.

Sherlock had brought his armour to perfection.

John had kept his uniform and his gun.  
  
He didn't see the moment of panic flash across Sherlock's face as he got up from his chair to start pacing around the hospital room.

He also didn't see the detective's relief once he had deduced that he wasn't going to run off again.  
  


 

_'Go to sleep. I'll fix your release papers.'_

He wrote and finally walked out the door.  
  



	18. Collecting facts of an Illusion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have no idea why I always get ourselves into bad mood/angst land again.  
> Maybe I should go and see someone...  
> Or not...  
> It gets better.  
> Promise. *wink*

 

 

 

The second Sherlock had finished with his explanation, John Watson knew that he had been right.  
  
And he hated himself for it.  
  
This was not the man he knew.  
  
Not the man that had left him more than six months ago.  
  
Sherlock had changed.

He had changed in a way John hadn't believed to be possible.  
  
He was far more...  
  
...sensitive?  
  
...emotional?  
  
Softer?  
  
John was confused.  
  
He got up and stood.

Why he did it, he could not tell.  
  
Fight or flight.  
  
The ever same reactions of a soldier.

Defend what you fight for.

Know when you are beaten.

  
Sherlock's apparent death had destroyed something inside of him.

He had been changed by it as well.  
  
The question they now faced was not _if_ but _how_ they could repair it.

Together.  


John had no doubt, seeing how Sherlock had been affected recalling what must have been the worst day of his life so far.

The darkest months he had had to live through.  
  
He wouldn't flee.

Not without him.  


This was their turning point.

And he would not let it slip away.  
  
He picked up his note pad once more.  


 

_'Go to sleep. I'll fix your release papers.'_   


Sherlock smiled.

Weakly.  
  


As John quietly closed the door behind himself he couldn't get that last image off his mind.

Sherlock quite literally looked like a beaten dog.

But not only his physical injuries were what worried John.  
  
It was the emotional side that Sherlock suddenly showed so openly that concerned him.  
  
Why?

Why now?

What on earth had happened to him?

He had told him he had spent the time in relative isolation.

The occasional contact to other people unavoidable- but apart from that?  
  
Taking deep breaths, John approached the nurse's desk to do as he had promised.

While he fought his way through the forms, ticked boxes and signed here and there, he tried hard to think of a strategy to work with.  
  
Strategies are the heart and soul of every soldier.

Never leave base without one.  


The problem was that he could not get a proper grip on his own thoughts.

Too many images drifting through his mind, emotions mingling, fears and hope distracting him.  
  
His mind was blocked.

Clotted by the relief to have back what he had thought he had lost.

Opressed by the suspicion that they had not yet reached the end of this tunnel.

That something was still lurking in the dark.

Something was alway lurking in the dark for Sherlock Holmes.  


 

When he returned to Sherlock's room he froze on the spot.

The great detective was unsuccessfully trying to put on his own clothes Mycroft had brought for him earlier.

His movements, restricted by his injuries, were so slow and delicate, John winced.

Internally.  
  
It must be already bad enough for him.

Once such a graceful person, now reduced to this.

John remembered the rage and frustration he had felt while his shoulder was recovering, making him feel like a small child.

Dependent on help for the most banal everyday movements.  


_Oh, Sherlock._   


He said nothing, but set to help him.  
  
If there was one person on earth Sherlock would ever allow to do this, to see him like this, and give him a hand at such intimate things as getting dressed and undressed, it would be John.

He didn't yet dare to think of all the things he would have to do to help Sherlock.  
  
Change his dressings.  
  
Check his sutures.  
  
Apply lotion.  
  
Help him shower- no bathe.  
  
Help him shave.  
  
Help him eat.  
  
Help him cope.  
  
Be his shoulder to lean on.  
  
Be his outlet for his frustration.  
  
Be his friend.  
  
Just that.  
  
How could he ever be anything more?  
  
Address his feelings?  
  
Now that Sherlock seemed open to sentiment himself would be the perfect opportunity, but John couldn't possibly add his own emotional ballast on top of Sherlock's own.  
  
How could he dare to add that to all of the concerns and feelings Sherlock found himself dealing with right now?

The onslaught must be terrifying for a man like him and John felt it to be irresponsible and selfish to concern him with his own personal matters in addition.  
  
Silence it would be then.  
  
In more than one way.  


Because once Sherlock was back to his old self John couldn't picture him other than simply dismissing John's 'flattery' and continue with business as usual.  
  
But would John be able to live with that?  
  
He had no idea.  
  
But he was tired of thinking of every possible outcome of this.  
  
This situation they were dealing with right now.  
  
He couldn't possibly control it and as Sherlock always said:

It is unwise to draw conclusions without all the facts.  
  
Collecting facts it would be then.  


 

He calmly walked over to Sherlock and looked at him.

Just looked at him, but trying to express every possible sign of the relief he felt to have his best friend back.

And maybe some of the exhaustion.  
  
Sherlock returned a look of confusion and then sadness.

Things he couldn't express with words but that were so evident in his eyes John had to bite his tongue not to flinch at the sight of it.  


 

_'Would you...?'_

Sherlock asked quietly.  


 

John just nodded and set to work.

He untied the hospital gown at Sherlock's back and turned to grab his shirt.

Button down.

He smiled.

Posh as ever but considerate of Mycroft.

It would have been far more complicated and uncomfortable to get Sherlock into a t-shirt.

This way he gently and very carefully removed the shoulder restraint, propping the arm in position with his hand as best as he could and pulled one shirtsleeve over and up Sherlock's injured arm.

Then he draped the shirt around his back and let his friend slip into the other sleeve on his own while he applied the shoulder restraint again.  


 

_'Right. That wasn't too bad was it?'_

John muttered with a tight lipped smile.  


 

_'No. And thank you.'_

Sherlock replied.

Genuine gratitude displayed in his eyes.  


 

_'What for?'_

John asked, tilting his head but smiling a little broader.  


 

_'For helping me but not making me feel helpless._

_You took care of my weak arm while letting me see after my strong one, which of course I am perfectly capable of, and thereby giving me the feeling that I am not an utter_

_imbecile who can't even handle putting on a shirt._

_So thank you._

_For that.'_   


 

John snorted.

He just couldn't help it.

_'You are...just your old self, aren't you?_

_Back from the dead and already back in deduction mode whilst still in the bloody hospital.'_   


 

_'Without a doubt hospitals have an affinity to blood. And gore.'_   


 

_'Is that the medication speaking out of you?'_   


 

_'I don't think so. I feel perfectly normal.'_   


 

_'Funny. You are being funny and that's certainly not normal. Not for you.'_   


Now Sherlock looked a little insulted.  


 

_'I don't think you are supposed to make fun of me or even insult me while I am injured._

_You are a doctor.'_   


 

 _'Yes. Yes I am. Doesn't mean I shouldn't address changes of behaviour in a patient after traumatic experiences.'_  
  
There was more than one meaning behind that statement.  


 

_'It was hardly traumatic. Physically, yes. Mentally, no. Why would it affect me?'_

Sherlock replied, trying to sound unaffected.  


 

_'Why...? Sherlock, it would be perfecly normal to...never mind._

_Just you wait for your reaction when I try to get you into a taxi._

_And for the record, I didn't mean the accident you clot.'_

He added quitely but with an undertone of anger.  


 

Sherlock's head snapped back to John and he looked at him dumbstruck.

 

  
_'Here.'_

John said, turning around to reach for the trousers.

He kept his eyes on the ground, not wanting for Sherlock to see the hurt in his eyes.

His arrogant self again, then.

Brilliant.

Oblivious to everything or at least unable to admit that he felt more than he let on.  


He carefully slid one leg over the cast starting at Sherlock's left ankle, riding it up until mid thigh and then taking his hands away, moving back.  


 

Sherlock stared down at his feet.

_'John, I can't...I can't reach down to...'_   


 

But John turned his head away, blinking furiously.

Drawing a few deep breaths, he turned back and set to work again, sliding the fabric over Sherlock's other leg.  


 

_'Up.'_

He said and motioned for Sherlock to lift himself to stand.

With quick and delicate movements he pulled the trousers up and closed the button and zip, aware of the closeness of his hands to Sherlock's most private parts.  


 

_'Thank you.'_

The detective replied and sat back on the edge of the bed.  


 

John busied himself with putting on Sherlock's socks and shoes and once that was done went to grab his jacket.

He needed the few steps it took to get around the bed to get hold of his emotions again.  


Why was he reacting this way?

What had Sherlock done?

He was perfectly like he used to be, no surprises there?

But maybe that was exactly the problem.

Maybe John had thought- after hearing the explanation- that things were indeed different now.

More honest.

Not so...distant.

And yet- and yet as soon as the deed was done to explain to John why and how he had faked his own death Sherlock had returned to the habit of trying to be untouchable and above it all.

And this annoyed John.

It annoyed him profoundly.

Sure, the months alone had left him with too much time to think about his feelings toward his flatmate and maybe he expected things from Sherlock now that the other man couldn't possibly be aware of.

How should he know that all John wanted was a hug or any other gesture of innocent affection expressing that he was as happy to be home as John was to have him back.

A 'normal' human being would.

But nothing came forward.

No hug.

No touch.

No _'I missed you.'_

And John hated himself for expecting it.

Because he knew perfectly well that Sherlock- the old Sherlock- wasn't comfortable with such things, never would think of doing any of the above.

And so he was mostly annoyed with himself for even having the illusion or hope of any of that happening.  


Sherlock was not to blame for being himself.

But John wasn't either. And he was a person who sometimes needed a sign of affection. Of appreciation.

 

He shrugged on his jacket and told Sherlock he would get him a wheelchair.  
  
He was more than happy to get some 'air'.

It was for the best that he didn't see Sherlock's indignant look upon hearing that proposition.


	19. Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John takes Sherlock home.  
> Life goes on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I seriously think that this chapter is a little lighter.  
> Maybe I needed that after watching the Sign of Three.

 

 

 

It was his most indignant hour.

So far.  


He was being pushed through hospital corridors, past people, past human beings that stared at him, some with recognition in their eyes, some with disapproval, some with admiration.

But most with pity.  
  
It was the very definition of tedious, but what was he to do about it?

Crippled into the state of physical ability equalling a two-year-old, he slumped a little further into the wheelchair and sulked.  
  
This was not how he had pictured his return from the dead.

He wasn't sure what exactly he had expected, hadn't planned it out in much detail, but this- this was mortifying.  
  
He had laid out his heart to John in his account of events, putting as much emotion into it as he was capable and yet...

And John barely uttered a word.  
  
John was angry, so much Sherlock could tell with his also crippled powers of empathy.  
  
Why?  


 

_You know why._

_You've been an utter bastard._

_You still are an utter bastard in his eyes._

_You let him suffer._

_You more than deserve his anger._   


 

_'God, I do...'_

Sherlock muttered to himself.  


 

John looked down at him, pushing the wheelchair towards the front entrance of the hospital.

All he could see was Sherlock's unkempt mess of hair.

Awkwardly sticking off his head from lying in bed for too long, unmoving.  
  
It would be a nightmare once Sherlock managed to get hold of a mirror.  
  
They reached the doors and John handed Sherlock the single crutch for his right hand.

He helped him get out of the wheelchair and supported him until Sherlock could hold himself upright relatively stable on his own.

He quickly asked a nurse to return the wheelchair and meant to place his hand on the small of his best friend's back more for moral support than anything else.

If the giant giraffe keeled over there was not much he could do anyway.

He didn't make it to touch him though.

Once familiar with the principle of the crutch, Sherlock started to march forward, impatience in his eyes.  
  
John sighed.

And followed.  


 

 

The taxi John had ordered was awaiting them at the curb.

At the sight of the vehicle Sherlock obviously tensed, though he would never admit it.

John lightly smirked behind him, where he couldn't see.  


 

_'Come on now. You've spent half of your life in cabs from what I know.'_

John went to open the door.  


 

_'Hardly.'_

Sherlock replied.

His pride just a tiny bit scratched at the rightfulness of John's earlier remark.  


 

_How ridiculous to be afraid of a cab!_   


 

He drew a deep breath and decided that he had to get rid of his discomfort as soon as possible.

As he trotted towards the door John was holding open for him, the crutch slipped into the gap between the car and the curb, throwing him off-balance and making him bang his head on the frame of the door.

'Ow!' He bellowed angrily as he literally fell onto the cab's backseat.

John managed to catch him under the shoulder in time to keep him from falling to his knees on the pavement and manouevering him onto the cushioned seat instead.  


 

_'Are you alright?'_

John immediately inquired.

_'Sherlock are you hurt?'_   


 

_'Fine.'_

He grumbled as he tried to sort his limbs and seat himself upright.

Which didn't work.

At all.  


 

_'Here, come here.'_

John grabbed him by the waist with both hands and pulled him out of the cab.  


The driver watched with one amused and one pityful eye.  
  
When Sherlock was standing upright again, with his hand on the car's roof for support John gently turned him around and helped him sit down inside the cab sideways to the seat.

He then went on to turn him, carefully lifting Sherlock's injured leg and placing it in position again.

Once this was done he picked the crutch off the pavement and walked around to get into the cab himself.  


 

_'221b Baker Street, please.'_

He ordered the driver and threw him a disapproving look as he saw the smirk on the other man's face.  


 

_'You really are concerned, are you?'_

Sherlock muttered, still trying to adjust his sitting position.  


 

_'I'm a doctor, you clot. What do you expect? And also...I'm your friend. Remember?'_   


 

 _'Yes. How could I forget? ''Sherlock eat this. Sherlock drink that. Sherlock do not stick your hand in there.'' It was difficult to manage without...all that.'_  
  
The 'you' was carefully bit back.  


 

 _'I'm sure it was. First thing we are home, you'll eat something. You look like Lady Gaga.'_  
  
John grinned, turning his head to look out of the window.  


 

_'What?'_

Sherlock exclaimed.  


 

_'Lady Gaga is a popular singer, who...'_   


 

_'I know who Lady Gaga is! I do not understand how I, in the least, resemble her. I am certainly neither female nor a singer.'_   


 

_'You...? Well, then you know that she's excessively lean and that she sports rather unusual looks.'_   


 

 _'Yes, I am aware of that. You suggest I am too thin in your professional opinion or that I 'sport' ridiculuous hair do's? Or both? Certainly you cannot argue about my choice of clothing.'_  
  
Sherlock couldn't keep a tiny smile out of his voice.

It was so good to bicker again.

Like in the old days.

Had it really only been six months?  
  
He was relieved to find John talking to him again, and in a surprisingly normal voice, too.

He had expected days or weeks of angered conversation, tears or no communication at all.

John's earlier approach of writing things down had genuinely confused and concerned him, though he could understand John's fear of losing his masculinity in the eye of his friend if he burst into tears while talking.

Whether it would have been angry tears or tears of sadness, Sherlock did not know.

No tears at all were a relief to his conscience.

Though he would never think any lesser of John if he cried in front of him.

He had, in fact, done so on more than one occasion, as Sherlock had pointed out earlier in the hospital, and everytime the detective had felt awe at the trust John put into him, coming to _him_ in those moments, as well as agony because he was having a hard time finding the right way to give that comfort that John was so obviously seeking.

From now on, he would be a better friend to him.

He sensed that John had highly approved of his emotional account of the past events instead of his usual, analytical style of reporting.

Emotions ran deeply in his heart and mind and Sherlock found that this exactly- that character trait- was, what intrigued him the most.

What he admired most about his friend and what he was, secretly, also jealous of.

Surely it was a risky way of going through life, with pain and disappointment around every corner, but it made John Watson who he was- and to Sherlock he was perfect.

The ideal man.

He was smart, he was compassionate, he was brave, he was kind and most of all- he stayed.

After all that Sherlock had done and despite who he was- John was the only one to ever stay.

And he had no idea how grateful exactly Sherlock was about that.

He would have to show him.

He would have to be a better man himself.  


 

 _'You're clothing is as posh as ever- don't look at me like that, I didn't say I don't like it...'_  
  
John blushed a bit.  
  
 _'Didn't say it doesn't suit you well...'_  
  
That didn't exactly make it better.  
  
 _'What I'm saying is, that you need to eat more regularly again. And you have indeed a strange hair-do at the moment.'_  
  
He snorted wholeheartedly at Sherlock's shocked expression.

The detective immediately tried to rearrange his curls with his good hand.  


 

_'I'm afraid all hope is lost until I get you into a bath.'_

John commented, giggling.  


 

Sherlock's head snapped to face him.

His expression of horror only increased at the prospect of John helping him with that.  
  
The cabbie shot them a questioning look through the mirror.  


 

_'Sherlock, you remember that I just had to help you dress, that you can't even put your socks on, on your own?'_   


Sherlock drew in a sharp breath.

John tried to placate him.  


_'Look, I know what you feel like and I will help you only with the things that you simply cannot manage on your own right now._

_I'll leave you on your own for the rest._

_I know that this is more than frustrating, but there's no other choice, Sherlock._

_I'm sorry.'_

_'Why?'_

_'Sorry what?'_

_'Why do you help me at all? Why are you even still here? You could have left months or weeks ago and not even realise I was back again. So why do you bother helping me?'_

_'You can't even be grateful for once, can you? I'm helping you, because I still care about you, you idiot, and I am a doctor as mentioned before. But if you do not want to have me around...'_   


_'Didn't say that.'_

Sherlock replied.

Voice suddenly small.  


_Fucked up again. Well done, freak._   


_'I am grateful. John. I cannot possibly express how...your continued presence affects me.'_   


Now John's head snapped from the window to Sherlock.

He stared at him with a mixture of genuine surprise and hurt.

A moment passed where they just stared at each other, then the cab came to a halt in front of their door.  


_'That's fifteen quid, you two.'_

 

John escaped their 'moment' by shaking his head and reaching for his wallet.

He quickly paid the cabbie, grabbed the crutch and made to help Sherlock leave the car.  


 

_'Thank you, John.'_

Sherlock said quietly and moved towards the door on shaky legs.  


When John had unlocked the door and turned to hold it open for Sherlock, he caught the look on Sherlock's face.

The detective was staring at the staircase leading up to their flat- their home- barely containing the relief he felt to finally be back.

His eyes wide and his mouth slightly agape, John saw the faint trace of moisture forming in his friend's eyes and he tried to imagine what it must feel like to him.

To have his familiar surroundings again.

The smell, the texture of the floorboards underneath his bare feet, the couch, his violin, his very own bed.

All the things John missed whenever he had attended a medical seminar in the past.

Sherlock stared.

He stared and his breathing indicated that he forcefully tried to contain his emotions.

He had expected to show an extreme reaction upon seeing John again, which he had done in fact, though John had not stayed long enough to witness his tears.

Only Mycroft had.

He had never anticipated to be so strongly affected to see the door to his one and true home again.

The home that was only ever so much since John shared it with him.

Thoughts, feelings and memories chasing each other inside of his head, he forgot about his shaking thighs, his wobbly knees, the strain in his biceps from leaning on the crutch with his full weight.

He was shocked into silence and so overwhelmed he didn't even hear John's concerned question.  


_'Sherlock?'_   


 

He snapped out of his daze.

John was standing in the exact same place as he had always had in his daydreams back in France.

Standing in front of the stairs, leaning against the wall and looking at him questioningly.

Asking him to come up.

Welcoming him home.  


 

 _'Yes. Yes. Better move so I can sit down again.'_  
  
He shook his head to chase the memories and emotions away.

Staring at his feet for a moment he tried to blink away the tears that had formed in his eyes.

He was surprised his voice was so steady.  


 

_'Come on, then.'_

John said and offered his arm.

_'Do you want to try on your own?'_   


 

_'No, I think I would rather rely on your guidance.'_

_In more than one way, John._

His subconscious added. _  
_

  
Not saying anything more, John put his arm around Sherlock's waist and pulled him against himself, so that the injured man could lean on him for support.

Then they slowly made their way up the seventeen steps to their sitting room.

Their home.


	20. Trying to find a way

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock is irritated and reluctant to show John what he really feels.  
> This leads to John thinking he doesn't want him around.  
> Things develop into the wrong direction.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All our boys want is each other, and yet every one of them cocks it up.  
> We have reached the point of no return. Soon, we will reach the revelations of diaries.

 

 

 

When Sherlock Holmes stepped into the sitting room of 221B Baker Street, for the first time in six months, he felt exhausted.  
  
Clearly the strain of his injuries was partly to account for that, but there was something else lingering in the back of his mind that was bothering him deeply.  
  
Suddenly his home, the one place where he could be himself and let his mind drift, where he didn't have to put up the facade of the contained, unaffected, emotionless freak that he was outside of these walls- it seemed to slowly suffocate him.  
  
The very thought of spending every waking moment of the following weeks, dependent on John Watson, but careful not to give away his true state of emotions, felt like torture in his eyes.  
  
How could he allow John to be so close to him?

Touch him in ways and places where he longed for his touch and yet- he had to pretend to be impassive about it all.

It was impossible to tell John how hard it had really been to be away from him for so long. 

To him, he had blamed his sentimental outburst on the solitarity of the place and country. 

If he told him what was really occupying his mind these days, John would most certainly leave.

He would not believe him, he would be offended by his approach and tell him how he wasn't gay and that he couldn't stand to live with a broken thirty-something lusting after him, while he had to pamper said man.

Which wasn't even his duty.

He would be uncomfortable to be around Sherlock and that thought was what terrified the detective most.

He had had to live without him.

He couldn't risk to lose him again.

John was under no circumstances to find out.  
  
  


_'I'll whip up something for lunch. Any wishes?'_

The doctor asked, already heading to the kitchen.

Best not to linger around too much, not to make Sherlock uncomfortable.

 

_If he needs me, he'll make himself known._

_As usual._   
  


 

Sherlock didn't respond.

The meaning of his current train of thought weighing his heart down.

He had tuned out completely.  
  


 

_'Time. I need time alone.'_

He muttered under his breath and walked towards his bedroom.

Once inside he meant to close the door with his good arm, giving it a nudge with his shoulder but underestimating his own strength.

It fell shut with a bang.  
  
  


_'What the bleeding...?'_

John said to himself as he turned around the corner to stare at Sherlock's tightly shut bedroom door.

He contemplated going over and asking, but decided to give Sherlock a moment on his own.  
  


Time, he had muttered.

Time alone.

And how could John deny him that?

He knew perfectly well that he would be Sherlock's shadow in the next couple of weeks.

Always around, always ready to help, always present.

He had to give Sherlock time for himself.

To cope and have room to breathe.

He certainly had needed that after Afghanistan.  
  


 

He set to make lunch, trying to occupy himself and not worry too much.

Clearly, Sherlock wasn't very outspoken on the emotional front and he would have to be delicate not to push him in any way.

He was fragile in his current state and John was there to mend the cracks and tears- not to break him up further.  
  
As he looked into the fridge, he heard a loud groan of frustration from Sherlock's bedroom.

Sighing, but not reacting to it, he took the bread and peanut butter out and popped two slices into the toaster while grabbing a plate and knife.  
  
About five minutes later he sat at the table, waiting.

Again, he contemplated knocking at Sherlock's door but thought better of it.

Instead he grabbed his phone and send a text.  
  


**Peanut butter jelly? ;)**   
**Whenever you want, but it's warm now.**   
**J**   
  


It took Sherlock a moment to decide whether to go out into the kitchen or stay in.

Then he picked up his crutch from the mattress and got to his feet, unsteadily.

It took him three approaches to remain standing- the bed cushioning his fall every time.

 

_I am going to kill myself for real if this is what it's gonna be like for weeks._   
  


 

Sighing angrily about the fragility of his transport he tried to open the door with his good hand while leaning onto the crutch.

It didn't work.

Flexing the fingers of his injured arm, he wrapped them around the door knob cautiously and turned it.

With a click the door slowly opened.

Drawing a deep breath, preparing himself for John's inquisitive chat that would certainly follow, he walked towards the kitchen.  
  


'Hey.'

John greeted him with a reassuring smile.

 

  
_'Please, John, could you stop looking at me like this?_

_I know you mean well, and you are trying to hide it, unsuccessfully I must say, but I politely ask you not to give me such pitying looks._

_If you would be so kind?'_  
  
Two seconds in the room and he could already scream and slap himself in the face again.  
  
John's slightly hurt expression didn't make it easier.  
  


 

_'Sorry. I'll try to, okay?_

_It's just that I worry._

_You know me.'_   
  


 

_'Yes I do._

_But there is nothing to worry about._

_My bones are set and in casts, my ribs kept in place by a highly uncomfortable bandaging and my arm...well._

_There is not much you can do.'_  
  
He eyed the plate in front of him suspiciously.

But remembering the hospital food of the past week, this looked like luncheon in the Ritz' so he carefully picked up the slice and brought it to his mouth.  
  


John attempted not to watch his every move like a mother hen.

He got up to distract himself by making tea.  
  


As Sherlock had taken a bite, he indulged in the taste of it.

How often had he dreamed of a meal in companionable silence with John in all those months?

His eyes fell shut as he tried to store away the feeling of contentment he felt now he was finally sitting here again.

As he intended to put the slice of toast back onto the plate, his mind suddenly flashed him an image of darker places, of lonely meals, and cheap wine and his hand suddenly

jerked in a slight tremor, causing the bread to drop into his lap.

Jelly side down.

Naturally.  
  


 

_'Aaaaaarghh!'_

Sherlock exclaimed frustrated. 

_'The hell with it!_

_Why can't I lie down and die for good?_

_Instead I have to put up with this.'_

 

Unconsciously he gestured from his lap towards John.

His mind had probably intended to express that John was the source of the toast and thereby to blame for his misery.  
  
  
To John it translated differently, though.

After he recovered from the sudden stab of pain that Sherlock's outburst caused, he marched over and simply held out his hand.  
  


_'Toast.'_

He said and made sure to look Sherlock straight in the eye.  
  


The detective returned a glare and carefully picked up the bread from his thigh and placed it onto John's open palm.

Jelly side up, naturally.

The second the slice lay upon his hand, John turned and went for the bin.  
  


 

_'You might want to get changed._

_See if you can manage on your own.'_

And with that, John grabbed his jacket from his chair and went out to finally have a proper walk to get some proper air.  
  


* * *

It hurt.

The look in Sherlock's eyes had hurt him deeply.

Just as John had managed to purge his anger about being left behind, Sherlock rubbed it in his face that he didn't want him around.

Sure, John could understand his frustration and deep down he knew that the detective probably hadn't meant to personally attack him.

But his remark earlier?  
  


_Why can't I lie down and die for good?_   
  


He couldn't mean that, could he?

John knew it would be bad, tried to imagine the way he had felt, multiplied by at least ten-fold.

Sherlock hated to be idle.

He was an independent, proud creature and to be this restricted and dependent must be pure hell to him.

John absolutely got that.

But to say he wished himself dead rather than to trust and rely on his best friend was something John couldn't get his head around.

Couldn't tolerate.

Why couldn't Sherlock just tell him?

Say:

  
_'Stop, John. It's too much right now?'_

 

Why did he have to be such an arse and always hurl his anger towards John to deal with?  
  


_Tell me a way to cope with this._

_Tell me I have every right to sulk._

_Do not tell me that I am wrong._   
  


_Well, you are wrong this time, mate._

_You are wrong to push me away._

_You are wrong not to accept my help._

_And you are wrong to think that this doesn't hurt me as much as it hurts you._   
  


He sighed, standing in front of 'the Hub' in Regent's Park, waiting for a cliché raincloud to suddenly appear above him.

Indecisive whether to turn around for home or go ahead to grab a coffee, he stood, trying to even out his upset breathing.  
  


 

_'John? Hey!'_

 

John flinched.

He didn't want company right now.

He wanted to be left alone to contemplate the situation and his next move.  
  
Mike Stamford didn't see the look on his face as he approached him, two Dachshunds following him eagerly.  
  


_'How are you, mate?_

_Haven't seen you in a while._

_I heard Sherlock's back?_

_How's that working?'_   
  


 

_'Hey._

_Yes. Yes._

_Well, he's been in a car accident and now I have to keep a sharp eye on him._

_Don't want him to chase criminials breaking his other leg, do I?'_   
  


Nervously he stared at his own shoes.  
  


_'How's Deirdre?'_

He asked, meaning to be polite and trying to avoid talking about his flatmate any further.  
  


 

_'At her sister's for the weekend._

_Hey, fancy dinner one of these days?_

_You can bring Sherlock along._

_Would love to hear that story!'_

 

Mike chuckled loudly.

One of the Dachshunds started to scratch John's leg.  
  


 

'Yes, sure.

I'll give you a call if I can leave him alone.

He's...'  
  


 

_'He's driving you up the wall, isn't he?'_

Mike looked at him.

He had seen the look on his face then.

_'John you would never leave a patient alone and yet here you are, taking a walk._

_What's he done?'_   
  


 

_'Nothing._

_He just...'_

John sighed, tired of finding excuses.

_'He's so frustrated with his situation, understandably, but he lets it out on me, which is nothing new, I'm quite used to it, it's just...I really missed him and now that he's back he's...changed._

_God, I sound like a teenage girl.'_   
  


 

_'Did he tell you what happened?_

_While he was out there?_

_Did you check if you might have another case of PTSD under your roof?'_   
  


John looked at him, affronted.

He didn't like to be reminded that his psyche had its flaws.  
  


_'Look, don't get me wrong._

_You're fine now, I can see that._

_He's really done you good, mate._

_There's worlds between the man I met in the park and the man...well, the man I met in the park just now._

_But if your honest with yourself, really honest- Sherlock's never appeared to me to be the most mentally stable and yet I've never seen him flinch when he hurt himself in the lab or otherwise that I saw._

_He sure has something more bothering him than a broken leg.'_   
  


 

_'Like a fracured shoulder, arm and ribs?'_

John asked, a tiny, hopeful smile on his lips.  
  


 

_'Oi, he's been thorough._

_But still. You need to talk._

_Don't you let him bring you down with him._

_He needs help and he should be grateful to have such a great man with him.'_   
  


Mike gave his shoulder a reassuring slap.

The dog still scatched John's leg with its paws.  
  


 

_'Thanks, mate. I'll try to keep that in mind.'_   
  


_'Gimme a call if you need...you know._

_And about dinner._

_Some time out sure will do you some good._

_Cheers, mate.'_   
  


 

 _'Cheers.'_  
  
John turned to watch Mike walk away for a bit, thoughts whirring through his mind.  
  
Some straight-forward talking it would be then.  
  
  


* * *

Sherlock knew he had messed up for the second time in five minutes when he saw the hurt expression on John's face.

His curt remarks where another indicator for the anger that still boiled inside of his flatmate.

Desperate and annoyed he slammed his fist onto the table, causing the plates to clatter.

John hadn't even touched his toast.

Guilt and shame washed through Sherlock once again and he sighed dramatically.

 

When he got up, he took note of some picture frames on the mantlepiece.  
  
Curious he hobbled towards it and had a look.

It was three pictures, each framed in a different looking frame, most certainly Mrs Hudson's handiwork.

The first one showed herself with an arm wound around John, from the day they had returned from Baskerville.

The second one was a picture of himself and John, leaning towards each other over a game of chess, glaring playfully.

The third one made his throat go tight.

It was his obituary from the newspaper.

Carefully cut out and framed, it stood on the mantle for John to see day in, day out.

Why would he do such a thing?

Sentiment?

A rather painful memento to put on display.

What was it with people and their metaphorical hearts?

He let out a groan over his own inability to understand emotion better.

 

Searching for something to keep his mind away from such gloomy thoughts once more, he turned and took in the state of the living room.

It didn't look much different from the way he had left it, the day he died.

Some places were cleared off papers and someone had certainly dusted.

As his eyes caught sight of his violin case, his heart made a leap.

Eagerly he stumbled forwards and sat down in his chair, pulling the case into his lap.

Then he remembered the jam stain and sighed in annoyance.  
  


_It's leather. You can wipe it clean._   
  


As he clicked the case open, a dusty old scent he had long missed, arose from within the velvet lining.

He removed the piece of cloth covering his precious instrument and gently ran his fingers over the wood.

  
_Home._   
  


Carefully, he removed the restraints keeping the violin in place and took hold of its neck.

As he tried to lift it out of its bedding, a sharp pain surged through his palm.

With a hiss he let go of the instrument and stared at his hand.

Then he remembered with which force he had banged his fist on the table earlier.  
  


_Oh, for the love of..._   
  


 

The front door clicked shut and he heard John ascend the stairs.  
  


_'Right._

_We need to talk.'_

He said, entering the kitchen.  
  


 

_'I fear that I broke something more.'_

Sherlock confessed, reluctantly.  
  
John walked towards him.

Keeping a few feet distance still between them.  
  


 

_'How?'_   
  


 

_'Slammed my fist on the table._

_It hurts when I put pressure on my palm...'_

Sherlock indicated at the violin case.  
  


 

_'So you lifted the case with your fingers- and that didn't hurt?'_   
  


 

_'Not much.'_   
  


 

_'But when you...'_   
  


 

_'When I place the neck of my violin onto my palm it stings.'_   
  


_'Stings?'_   
  


_'Sharp pain, shooting through my entire hand._

_Do you want an x-ray, Professor?'_   
  


_'I'd like to throw it at your head right now._

_Let me have a look, alright?'_   
  


Sherlock nodded, then looked away.

He really needed to get control of his temper.

Why was he so short fused?  
  


John bent his knees and took his hand, carefull prodding his palm to check the bones of his flatmates hand.  
  
As he touched one at the outside of Sherlock's wrist where the triquetrum met the pisiform, Sherlock flinched and tore his hand away.  
  
John snatched it back instantly.

Without mercy.  
  


_'There doesn't seem to be a fracture, but I suppose you dislocated this one...'_

 

 

He pushed his thumb into the side of Sherlock's wrist to rearrange them.

There was a slight shift of bone on bone and a yelp from the detective and then it was done.  
  
John got to his feet and walked into the kitchen.

There he sat down and sulkily chewed on his now cold toast.

 

  
_'Thank you.'_

Sherlock said, rubbing his wrist and then putting the violin case back.

_'Would have been a nightmare if I were kept from my violin even longer.'_

He glared at his shoulder restraint.

_'Well...'_   
  


 

_'Yeah, as if it isn't already._

_To you.'_

John snapped between bites.  
  


 

Sherlock watched him.

Frowning.  
  
 _'John, I...'_  
  


 

_'Sherlock, don't. Alright?_

_Just give me a minute of peace to eat._

_Haven't had that all day.'_   
  


 

_'Peace or toast?'_

Sherlock tried to lighten up the mood with a chuckle.  
  


 

John simply grabbed his plate and stood up.

Walking up towards the stairs and banging the door shut once he was in his bedroom.  
  


 

* * *

_'Jesus Christ.'_

John said to himself as he slumped down on his bed with his toast.  
  
He really had meant to have a chat with Sherlock like grown-ups did, but it seemed to be impossible.  
  
Why had he slammed his stupid fist on table?

Was he that unstable?

That he deliberately tried to hurt himself even more?

Or was there really a deeper sense of frustration as Mike had mentioned?

What could he do about it?

He hadn't had a clue how to pull himself out of that pit, Sherlock was the one who had done that for him.

How was he supposed to address this?  
  


_Don't you let him bring you down with him._   
  


Well, there was only one way, was there?

If every bit of conversation between them resulted in this- him sitting in his bedroom, eating toast pathetically, and Sherlock sulking all over the place, bathing in self-pity and self-abhorrence, he would have to go back to writing.

He didn't like to feel the need to play such childish games, but he feared that Sherlock might get him to the point where he said something he couldn't take back.

Or Sherlock did.  
  
As he had made up his mind and finished his toast, he went downstairs again and put his plate away.

As he stepped into the sitting room, he found Sherlock lying on the couch, staring at the ceiling, looking at his hand questioningly.  
  
John walked over to the desk to find a pen and paper.

A few seconds after he had found a slip and a chewed-on pencil, he lay the page down on the coffee table for Sherlock to read.  
  
The detective first looked at him and then the paper.

As John didn't say anything, only pointed at it, he carefully moved back into a sitting position and read.  
  


 

_'I think we better stick with this for a while._

_I understand your frustration but that is in no way a justification for you to treat me like this._

_I am not your punching ball._

_Do it again and I'll leave.'_   
  


 

Sherlock looked at him with a mixture of confusion and irritation.

Then realisation seemed to dawn.  
  


_'I...'_

The detective began.

But nothing followed.  
  


 

John picked up the pen again.  
  
 _'You've always been a mean dick to most people._

_And now you are to me as well._

_Do you even understand what you have done to me?'_   
  


 

Sherlock's jaw clenched as he read this.  
  
 _'Moriarty had...'_  
  


 

_'I don't care about fucking Moriarty, Sherlock!_

_This is about us and what we used to have!_

_But apparently...'_

He raised his arm in resignation.

_'Sod this._

_You already made me angry again.'_   
  


 

_'John...'_   
  


 

_'Shut up!_

_Just shut up for once, you cock and at least try to imagine what you did to me and what that makes me feel like!_

_And then I might talk to you again!_

_If you need something, you know where to find me, but don't expect me to pamper you and your hurt ego or listen to your stupid rants about stupid fucking Moriarty!!'_   
  


With that he turned and stormed out of the flat once more.  
  



	21. The Long Way Towards Forgiveness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The long way towards forgiveness is not a pleasant road to take.  
> Sherlock learns this.  
> So does John.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know it is a lenghty chapter compared to the others but I had to get it out of my system.  
> There is one more chapter until things really get well again and I thank you all for your patience!  
> This story really grew into something I would have never expected.  
> I have made myself cry writing this and I'm not sure I can stop after watching tonight's season finale... ;(  
> This show does things to us, doesn't it?

 

 

 

So this was it.  
  
The ultimate failure of Sherlock A.C. Holmes.  
  
He had done everything he could to save the lives of the people closest to him.  
  
And he had destroyed any meaningful connection they might have had and pushed them away.  
  
Sentiment was not an easy task for him.

They all knew that.

He didn't want to use it as an excuse, he genuinely didn't know what to make of this situation, of those feeling tumbling around his skull and chest.  
  
The logical thing to do would be to ask John for advice.  
  
This was impossible now.  
  
He had cut the last thread.

He had broken the last fuse.

And he hated himself for not knowing why.  
  
Why was he so vicious?

It wasn't an easy situation to deal with.

This crippled state of mind and body was agonizing him.

But he did know that he had hurt John with his actions before and now.

He was aware of the pain and breach of trust he had caused.

He only had himself to blame.

John was not a part of his scheme.

Not a part of his crime.

He himself had murdered their connection, their trust and relation.

How could he solve it?

How could he find proof of evidence that would make John understand what he had intended?

How could he beg him for forgiveness without pushing him away even further?  


He had to try.

There was only one way.

Either John was going to continue to hate and resent him or things would slowly go back to normal again.

It wouldn't be easy.

But easy was for ordinary minds.

This was John and him.  


He had to prove to John that he was a different man now.

That the months in seperation from his heart- John was his heart, he had claimed it, owned it from the start- had made him more sensitive to his own emotions, taught him to listen more closely to the voice of reason deep inside the cellar of his mind palace.

He visited this place more often now.

Went through the files over and over, looked at the pictures on the wall, things he had learned as a child, but neglected more and more, ever since misery had entered his life for the first time.

He tried, he really tried.

And he failed.

But failure was a part of the learning process.

Failure was a part of life.

One should never live under the illusion that failure mustn't happen, that failure was something bad or shameful.

One had to accept that it was part of every single human being and it only made you better if you accepted it and you embraced it.

 

First lesson of psychotherapy in rehab.

How to deal with throwbacks.

Do not hate yourself for relapsing.

Think about why it happened and try better next time.  


 

He would.

He so would.  
  
  


* * *

 

He started off with straightening things up.

The usual mess that was their sitting room was certainly not at its peak, but still John would notice a significant improvement if Sherlock could manage to file away documents, put books back into shelves and fill the fridge with proper food (body parts would have to wait).  
  
As he only had one arm to master this task, it took some time.

That John had been nowhere in sight for the past four hours and probably wouldn't be for another few, Sherlock didn't have to strain himself too much.

He went downstairs first thing and asked Mrs Hudson for help.  


 

_'I still don't understand how you could do this to us, Sherlock._

_Do you have any idea what it was like for John?'_   


 

_'I am aware that I caused you immense pain._

_And I am desperate to make it up to you._

_But it had to be convincing, Martha.'_

He took her tiny hand in his.

 

_'I do not want to scare you, and I can assure you that I used the time I was away very well to ensure the safety of you all, so don't alarm yourself about it anymore, but there had_

_been threats upon your life and the only way I could stop it from happening was to die myself.'_

He looked at their joint hands.

Her palm resting on his.

Warm.

Gentle.

Home.

 

_'Clearly I had seen through Moriarty's plan straight away...but in the end I had no other choice._

_And I deeply regret this._

_All of this.'_

In that moment he looked up, into her eyes, and he saw that he had earned the forgiveness of at least one of the people he learned to care about so much.

Mrs Hudson was a strong woman.

She had endured many unpleasant things in her lifetime and losing her 'almost'-son was certainly the biggest blow she had ever had to face.

Sherlock had expected her to never forgive him for this, had feared her wonderful heart would be as broken as ever and that it would terminate their bond.

But then again- it was Martha who had taught him that  


_'...the things that you believe in, the things that are right in the eye of the many, are the only things worth fighting for.'_   


 

_'It was the right thing to do._

_It was the only way._

_And I knew it would hurt._

_But don't you think that it hurt me as well?'_   


 

She looked him in the eye.  
  

_'Sherlock, I have watched you grow into the man you are today._

_I think I had my share of helping you become the brightest, bravest and most stubborn creature-'_  
  
She chuckled and squeezed his hand.

He returned her a shy smile.  


_'-but also the one most deserving of the love and care and friendship that you have found in John._

_It was always my biggest concern to see you so lonely, because I know what you are capable of, my boy, and you deserve it._

_You deserve to be loved and cared for.'_   


 

Sherlock didn't dare to look at her.

His throat had suddenly gone tight.  


_'I know you don't think your worthy enough._

_Sociopath?_

_Where ever did you get that from?_

_You are exeptional and yes, you do tend to rub people up the wrong way, but that doesn't mean that you do not deserve it any less than all those godless, rude idiots out there!'_   


She squeezed his hand more firmly.  


_'I couldn't wish for anything more than the smiles that John puts on your face._

_You have finally found someone that makes you feel comfortable in your own skin.'_   


 

 

_'And now I might have pushed him too far._

_You didn't see the hurt and anger in his eyes, Martha._

_I don't know if I can fix this._

_I am splitting my brain in half trying to find ways to show him how sorry I am, but I fear that everything I do- he will only think I am playing a role again._

_He's seen me do it far too often.'_   


 

 

_'Well then you have to do something that you have never done before._

_Something only you can give him.'_  
  
He drew a deep breath.  


 

_'I mean to clean up the flat, first of all._

_I also planned to stock up the fridge but I'm afraid I won't be able to do so with only one arm._

_Can I be a rude boy and ask my auntie Martha to go to the shops for me?_

_Just this once!'_  
  
Sherlock added quickly, but with a boyish smile.  
  
 _'I know you're not my housekeeper.'_  


 

 _'Oh Sherlock, as long as you're unwell, I am everything for you.'_  
  
She cupped his battered cheek.  


 

_'You really had your share of pain, didn't you?'_

Her eyes suddenly expressing the concern of half a year.  


 

_'I may have overdone it.'_

Sherlock replied with a smirk but closed his eyes and leaned into the touch of her hand cautiously. It was the first gentle human touch apart from Mycroft's that he felt in more than six months.  


 

_'You'll be fine, eventually._

_I know my boys._

_But he will need the time._

_It really did almost kill him as well.'_  
  
Sherlock slowly opened his eyes and looked at her as tired as ever.

 

  
_'I wish Moriarty had never been born.'_   
  
  


* * *

 

When John returned home from a brisk walk all the way through Regent's Park and up Primrose Hill to sit on the benches and think, he froze upon the doorstep to their sitting room.  
  
It was quiet.

Eerily so.

No groans of frustration, no random plucking at violing strings, no clanking of chemical equipment from the kitchen.

Not even telly.  


All his senses on alert, John carefully stepped into the room.

For a second he wondered if he had only imagined the past few weeks and Sherlock was still dead and he had just awoken from a long alcohol-induced sleep.

Then he looked, really looked around and registered the sudden absence of papers and books all over the place, the chairs neatly arranged around the desk of which you could acutally see the tabletop-surface.

Frowning he turned around and walked into the kitchen.

Not much change there- he had cleared the table of all the retorts and test tubes a while ago, but there was a note lying on the table that hadn't been there when he had stormed off this morning.  


 

**'I never meant for our reunion to be like this.'**   


 

No signature.

But it wasn't necessary.

John knew it could only be from one person.

The one who constantly drove him up the walls and made him feel ashamed because he somehow was still angry.

But no.

He wouldn't give in so easily this time.

He had to remain distant and cold to finally teach the idiot his lesson.

Certainly, if John Watson was honest to himself, his anger had ebbed away again to a low buzz in the pit of his stomach.

Somehow Sherlock always managed to get to him again.

But this was just...too much.

This couldn't be forgiven that easily.

 

 

Despite his vow to show his flatmate the cold shoulder for a while he was still his friend and doctor and he felt the need to check on him.  


_Snap at me again and you can sleep in your jam-covered slacks for all I care._   


As he approached Sherlock's room he found the door slightly ajar, but no sound coming from within.

He gave the door a little nudge and peeked in.

Sherlock lay, with a towel wrapped around his still trouser-clad legs on top of the sheets, gently snoring.  


_So he had found a way to sleep without ruining the sheets._

_Clever._   


John thought and couldn't help a tiny smile at the sight of it.

He contemplated to snap a picture with his phone for future blackmail use, but decided against it.

Sherlock was injured and vulnerable.

Not matter what a dickhead he could be, he didn't deserve childish school yard games.

Probably had enough of those already.  


_Just like me._   


He left again to find himself something to eat.

A nice cup of tea to warm himself up again after hours spent outdoors and a quick peek into the fridge.

With low expectations he opened it only to find packets of cheese and cold cuts tumbling towards him.

After he had managed to neatly sort everything inside again- keeping some of the meat and cheese for dinner- he closed it again and wondered if indeed he had fallen asleep on the bench up Primrose Hill and was now bordering a hypothermic coma-fantasy.

If such a thing existed.

He was a doctor he ought to know?  
  
Too busy to wonder about his life and to fill his growling stomach he sat down in front of the telly for half an hour, lulling himself into an almost-sleep state and then retiring to his bedroom until morning.  
  


 

The next morning John awoke utterly relaxed but with a mild headache.

The hours spent in the cold yesterday were probably to blame for that.

With a mild groan he got up, took a shower, got changed and went downstairs.

As he approached the kitchen table he found it laid out for one person with another note lying on top of the plate.  


 

**I'm sorry.**

**I really am.**   


 

Drawing a deep breath- both of repressed anger and a sudden stir of emotion- he approached Sherlock's bedroom once more.

The door was open but the room deserted.

On the bed lay the towel and a heap of clothing John identified as yesterday's trousers.  


_How on earth did he manage...?_   


He picked them up to find the left leg cut open along the side.  
  
He couldn't help but laugh out loud.

So Sherlock had used kitchen scissors to cut them open so he could pull them off over his cast.

 

_Clever._   


John thought once more.

For a second he wondered what Sherlock was currently wearing now and how he had managed to put it on on his own when he heard the downstairs door close with a slight bang.  
  
He walked back into the sitting room just as Sherlock fought his way upstairs, leaning on his crutch.

He was wearing another suit but carrying track pants draped over his shoulder.  


 

_'Oh._

_Good morning, John.'_

He avoided to look his flatmate in the eyes.  


 

John nodded as means of greeting.  


 

_'I...I didn't want to wake you up, so I...called Mycroft and he...helped._

_With shower and stuff.'_   


 

The indignity and embarassment showing on his slightly pinkened cheeks.

Or maybe the shower had been a little too hot.  
  
John nodded again.

Expressing approval.  


 

God it was hard, somehow.

But he wouldn't give in.

Not yet.  


 

Without another word Sherlock went to his bedroom.

As he emerged again he stuck a chart on the fridge with two magnets.  


 

_'I worked out a diet plan for myself to get me back into form._

_Well...the form I used to have thanks to you.'_

 

He kept his back to John, bowing his head.  


_'I know that you approve when I eat regular meals and I know that I have neglected this for quite a while._

_So now I want to change that._

_Would that..._

_Well, I hope it will make you feel a bit more positive about me being around.'_  
  
And without turning around he went back to his bedroom.  
  
  


John gazed after him, taken aback.

Once again he supressed the urge to pinch himself as he did not quite believe the things that kept happening in the past twenty-four hours.  
  
Sherlock really seemed to have understood.

His previous outburst of anger must have made a real impression on the man as he now seemed to genuinely try to make it up to him.  
  
Curious about what was still to come, John helped himself to a quick breakfast and went to the clinic.

As Sherlock had already showered, he wouldn't need John's assistance much.

In any case he could call for Mrs Hudson.  
  
He left a note on the kitchen table just as Sherlock had done.  


 

**At the clinic.**

**Back at six.**

**Try not to do anything stupid.**

  


* * *

 

So John still didn't talk to him.

Of course it had not even been twenty-four hours of his improved behaviour, so Sherlock tried to keep his hopes at bay.

But no more angry fits on John's side were already a good sign in Sherlock's eyes.

And still- he wasn't done, yet.

There was one more thing he wanted to do.  
  


* * *

 

When John returned from the clinic, the flat was silent once more.

Sherlock sat in his armchair, his injured arm resting on his stomach and the other dangling down the side of the chair.

A book lay abandoned on the floor.

Sherlock was asleep.  
  
He looked utterly exhausted the way he slouched in his seat, the everyday movements, the cleaning he had done, using up most of his fragile constitution.  
  
With no fire in the hearth and a cold November wind screaming outside, John fetched the blanket off the sofa and gently draped it over his flatmate.  
  
Then he went for a shower.  
  


* * *

 

Sherlock woke up to the sound of water.

Slightly dazed he opened his eyes and tried to rub the sleep out of them.

As his vision came into focus he registered the sound as John using the shower.  
  
Was it already past six?  
  
He looked around.

Sitting in his armchair he found himself suddenly covered with a blanket.  
  
So there was still hope.  
  
He tried to remember how long he had been in this chair, when the door of the bathroom opened and John emerged, wet hair plastered to his head, wrapped in his bathrobe.  
  
A sudden pang of emotion surged through Sherlock and hit him in the chest like a wrecking ball.

How utterly had he missed the domesticity of living with this man.

How much at ease he finally felt in his familiar surroundings.

The scent of Baker Street inhabitated by John and him- together.

Images of evenings spent in these armchairs with glasses of whisky for John and brandy for him flashed through his mind and he sighed contentedly at the prospect that he might get all this back again- eventually.

At the sound of this John turned away from the fridge to look at him questioningly.  


 

_'You're back.'_

He stated, dumbly.  


 

John kept staring at him.  


 

_'I would have loved to cook some dinner, but I only got one arm and I doubt you would enjoy my cooking skills much...'_   


 

He tried a tentative smile in the hope John might return it.

It was a risk.

He certainly didn't want to rush things and he was afraid to push his luck, but a slight smile couldn't hurt much, could it?  
  
John still stared.

Sherlock thought he saw a familiar twitch around the other man's lips but his heart sank as John pretty much bolted to his room.  
  


 

* * *

 

Get away.

Get away.

Get away.

How can this man do such things to me?

How can he be so hard to resist?  
  
John felt the urge to return that innocent, gorgeous smile, but he couldn't risk it.

He had set his mind not to give in too early and with barely a day passed since their status quo had been discussed, he didn't want Sherlock to get what he wanted so quickly.

The man had to learn that some things were absolutely forbidden in a partnership like theirs, built upon trust and understanding and as stubborn as Sherlock could be, John would have to remain the bad guy in this situation and put his foot down- for their own sake.  
  
If he gave in now, Sherlock would be triumphant about his skills to manipulate John and the doctor wouldn't see the end of it.

They would get into row after row just the same as long as Sherlock didn't realise what was at stake.  
  
And there he was now, standing in his bedroom once more, dripping onto the floor in his bathrobe and contemplating.

Could he risk it?

Should he?

Ever?  


He shook his head to chase those feelings away for now.

This was a totally different battle to fight.

For now he had to concentrate on the task at hand- and that was to keep Sherlock at a distance.  
  
  


* * *

 

With a groan the detective picked up his crutch and got to his feet.

On slightly wobbly legs he hobbled towards his bedroom to get his phone.  


 

_'Brother dear, what's the matter? Are you alright?'_

Mycroft's voice came from the other end of the line.  


 

_'Yes, yes. I'm...'_

Sherlock sighed.

There wasn't much use in trying to hide anything from his brother.

Better get it over with now.

_'John is still mad at me._

_He...well, I wasn't the best friend for him as of late, was I?'_

He added an unconvincing chuckle.  


 

_'Sherlock, the things you have done have certainly made a great impression on John._

_As negative and positive._

_I am sure you are aware of the degree of pain you have caused your only friend and I will tell you from first hand experience that he was completely thrown off track by your death._

_What I have witnessed in the past six months has been a cause for worry and I advice you to handle the matter with the greatest delicacy of which you are capable.'_

 

  
_'Was he depressed?'_   


 

_'Sherlock...'_   


 

_'Was he depressed, Mycroft? Was he...suicidal?'_

The last word he could hardly utter.

It sounded more like a strangled whisper.  


 

_'Possibly.'_

Was all Mycroft said.  


 

Sherlock sat there, blinking, trying to process that new information.  


_'When he learned that you were still alive, he was deeply affected, brother._

_He threw a tantrum until they let him know about your status and then demanded to see you as soon as you were out of surgery.'_

  
He paused, awaiting a reply from his younger brother.

When none came, he continued.  


_'He remained by your side until you showed the first signs of regaining consciousness.'_   


 

_'What happened?'_

Sherlock inquired, voice small.  


 

_'You said his name.'_   


_'I did what?!'_   


_'You said his name, Sherlock._

_You tried to make known that you worry about him._

_You said 'Hamish' while still being on the brink of coma.'_

 

 

_'It scared him.'_

Sherlock stated the obvious.  


 

_'It certainly did._

_I'll never forget the look on his face._

_He left in a hurry and I found him here in Baker Street, sunk upon the kitchen floor, utterly distraught.'_   


_'What did you do?'_   


_'I explained to him that you didn't abandon him for no good reason and that he should listen to your account of events._

_I encouraged him to face you and assured him that I have a flat on offer as means of retreat for him if he needed a break or didn't want to continue lodging with you any longer.'_

 

  
Sherlock glared at his bedroom wall for a moment.

Then sighed.

Mycroft's affirmation of his greatest fear had turned his heart to ice.

He had never meant for John to become depressed again.

He had never meant for John to contemplate suicide...

Maybe it was better if he took his leave?

End things now that John still resented him?

Would that make it easier?

To part on bad terms certainly was less painful than to part on good terms.

 

Hate is a painless thing to experience.

Love equals torture when it's taken away from you.  


Mycroft had done the right thing.

He had used a far better approach than Sherlock did now.  


 

_'Is the flat still on offer?'_   


 

_'Is it that bad, Sherlock?'_   


 

_'I don't know._

_I try to be a better friend, but he still won't talk to me._

_You know that this is...hard...for me.'_   


_'I certainly do, Sherlock._

_But that doesn't mean he won't hear you when you say things out loud._

_Tell him, Sherlock._

_Swallow your childish pride and your fears._

_I know why you keep your emotions to yourself, you know that as well._

_But John is the first person…_

_He has changed you, and all for the better._

_You are still a genius, you are still the smartest man in the room- except when I am there of course-'_   


Sherlock snorted.

Mycroft chuckled.

  
_'-you are still the only consulting detective in the world and no one can reach your talent and skill, but Sherlock- you are now better than you could ever be-_

_and you have him to thank for that._

_So don't you dare, brother dear, to ruin this because you fear for your heart._

_John Watson has had the unique gift to look through your facade from the very beginning and obviously he liked what he saw._

_So do not deny him the entire truth._

_It would be unfair of you to let him draw his conclusions without all the data._

_Don't you agree, Sherlock?'_   


 

The detective sighed once again.  


 

_'Yes. You are right.'_   


 

_'As usual.'_   


 

_'Shut up.'_   


_'I'll await your call.'_   


_'You will. There is one more thing, though, that I ask of you, Mycroft...'_   
  
  


* * *

 

Time passed without another row, but also without another word spoken by John.

They developed a rhythm, John preparing the food, washing up, going to the shops, Sherlock turning to his brother for showers and grooming and avoiding to demand too much of John's time and care.  
  
He continued to leave notes, apologizing.

Different words, different tone, sometimes different languages.

He said it out loud, tried to find the right phrases to put into words how aware he was of the pain he had caused and how much pain it gave him.

And every time he did it, John Watson's heart clenched a little more.  
  
It worked well, their co-existence.

Days passed and even weeks went by until Sherlock went to get his casts removed but had to continue to use his crutch.

His shoulder and knee were now wrapped in lycra straps and he was way more free in his movements but all the while John still wouldn't utter a word.

Their evenings were spent in companionable silence, reading books, watching telly and Sherlock was only glad there were no more fights and bitter words.  


 

When a month had passed like this, Sherlock decided it was the time for his final try.

The help he had received from his brother he would never be able to repay, but other matters occupied his brain right now and Mycroft didn't mind at all.  


 

It was christmas eve and John came home from the surgery to find Sherlock waiting for him on the steps of their front door.

He was leaning on his crutch and trying to hide his face from the cold December wind.  


 

_'Hello.'_

He said flatly and nodded, nervousness clear in his every movement.

 

John nodded in return.

 

_'We once agreed not to spent too much money on christmas presents and I certainly understand that we are both not in the spirit of christmas right now._

_I also want to point out that this gift I want to make you is in no way supposed to be a trick to buy me your, highly regarded, devotion again.'_   


 

John frowned, looking at him.  


 

_'Look, I know that I made a right mess of...us._

_Of what we had, and I cannot stress enough how deeply I regret what you had to go through because of me.'_   


 

A car stopped behind them at the curb and Sherlock motioned for John to get in.

The doctor hesistated for a moment until he saw Sherlock's pleading expression.

Then he obliged, holding the door open for Sherlock.

Once inside, the car entered traffic again and Sherlock turned towards John and continued.  


 

_'I know that I am the only one to blame and I will spent the rest of my life wishing myself back to that night at the pool where I could have just shot that bastard and get him out of our lives for good._

_Before all of this happened.'_

 

He gestured between the two of them.

At the empty car seat separating them.  


_'We could have continued the way it was._

_We would have been great together._

_But it can't anymore, can it?_

_I cannot take these memories and feelings away from you and I accept that you may never forgive me John, but please, for the sake of who we used to be, let me try to find the words to explain- really explain- why I did what I did and how it affected me as well.'_   


 

John grunted and looked out of the window.

He desperately tried to think of a way to get away, get out of this car before his emotions took hold of him and he finally burst into tears in front of his friend.

He swallowed, took a deep breath and turned to Sherlock again.  


 

_'It was clear to me, from that night at the pool, that Moriarty would come back, one way or another._

_He was like a pitbull- once he had gotten his teeth into your flesh he wouldn't let go._

_The only way to get the upper hand was to let Moriarty believe that he was the stronger one, that he had vital information that he could use against me._

_This is where my brother came into all this.'_   


 

John raised his eyebrows.  


_Of course._   


 

_'He fed Moriarty with information about me, some false, some true._

_Every good lie has detail._

_Once that was done we had to make him believe that he could fool us all._

_The judge, the jury, the press._

_I played his game and he played me, not knowing that I pulled the strings to bring it to an end._

_As a known serbian killer entered 221B Baker Street that day, dressed as an electrician to fix the lighting in the hallway- you remember?'_   


 

John nodded, frown back in place.

 

  
_'I knew that the final hour had come._

_Something was going to happen, but not without a last round to play._

_When you fell asleep at Bart's- I confess that I had once again spiked your coffee- it was the perfect opportunity to set the wheels in motion._

_My brother staged the phone call you received about Mrs Hudson and I let you run off, staying behind for a good reason._

_One of Mycroft's drivers was supposed to con as a cab driver and pick you up to take you home._

_So far that part of the plan worked._

_Of course, bloody efficient as Mycroft's minions are, he drove a pretty straight route although he was instructed to take his time and reached 221B before it could be staged for your arrival._

_The assassin was ought to be in custody by the time I talked to Moriarty on the roof and another minion of my dear brother dressed in a bobby's uniform was instructed to inform you that Mrs Hudson had already been taken to St Mary's._

_Mrs Hudson was to be brought away on a different lie._

_One little miscalculation of the schedule and all went to hell when you realised upon your arrival that I had fooled you._

_Please note that I did it to get you away from Moriarty and out of reach of his henchmen, for I couldn't bear the thought of a repeat of the pool incident._

_I invited Moriarty to the roof under the pretense that I was desperate to talk to him but pretending to be my arrogant self I 'invited him to play'._

_With his confidence in himself once more assured he came and we talked._

_I made him believe that he had fooled me all along and we had a little banter like cat and mouse until he dropped the bomb and informed me that he had three assassins set upon Mrs Hudson's, Lestrade's and your track._

_I had expected so much and was therefore not bothered by his mad waffling and played along._

_I didn't foresee his final move though.'_   


Sherlock dropped his gaze to his hands that were now clenched into fists between his thighs.  


_'He shot himself and bereft me thereby of the pleasure to beat him to a confession._

_One way or another his network would still be out there for me to dismantle and some of them would be after me especially now that their boss was dead._

_I don't believe in criminal's honour but I couldn't be sure there weren't members of his extended irish family involved that would do anything to hunt me and see me and everything I cared for destroyed._

_There remained only one option._

_The one I had hoped I'd never have to make use of._

_I had to convince them that I was no longer a threat to them and that in conclusion there was no point in harming you._

_I had to die aswell._

_And it had to be convincing.'_  
  
He drew a deep breath, looked out of the window.

Then his eyes found their way back to John.

Just as he intended to resume his explanation the car came to a halt and the driver announced that they had reached their destination.  


 

* * *

 

It was a counsel house in northern Kensington with several floors of flats and a sports field just behind.  
  
As they approached the building, none of them said a word.

The nervousness had returned to Sherlock and John's heart fluttered in a sudden fit of anticipation.  


So Sherlock wanted to make him a christmas gift.

He wanted to surprise him and he seemed to be anxious about John's reaction.

An entire month had passed since their big row and John really had the feeling that he had achieved his goal by now.

Sherlock's behaviour had improved significantly and John could see how desperate the detective was to make things whole again.

The constant apologies and small gestures, so mundane and simple were proof enough to John that he really meant it.

The old Sherlock wouldn't have bothered with such ordinary stuff, wouldn't have acknowledged their value and dismissed them as below his grace.  


_I don't have time for such redundancies, John._   


But this man- the man that had returned to him, really was different.

And as one could observe how Sherlock's health was increasing day by day, the man got more comfortable in his own skin and his old surroundings again.

John had recognised a dramatic change once Sherlock had been freed of his casts and had regained most of the mobility of his arm and shoulder.  
  
Maybe now was the time that John could finally, completely forgive him?  
  
Sherlock had mentioned something about a high value and not intending to buy his devotion with money by making this gift.

What on earth was he doing?  


 

They reached the door and Sherlock rang the bell.

Only seconds later, a man in his mid-forties appeared at the door.

Military haircut, military way of holding himself and as he stepped back inside to show them the way, John recognised the slight limp caused by a leg prosthetic.  


_A soldier?_

_In a counsel house?_

_What were they doing here?_   


 

They were led on to a big reception room full of teenaged boys and girls and several also military looking adults in different states of invalidity.  


_'Welcome Mr Holmes. Captain Watson.'_

The soldier who had led them in greeted them and saluted to John.

 

John returned the gesture and looked around, confused.

As soon as the soldier had mentioned his name, the room had gone silent and most people were staring at the three of them now.

 

_'It's a pleasure to welcome you here, Doctor. We cannot express our gratitude enough.'_

The soldier continued.  
  
John just stared.  
  
As Sherlock looked down at him with a pleased smile, some of his anxiousness returned.

He began to explain.  


 

_'John, I know that I am not an easy man._

_I have never been and never will be._

_I am arrogant, self-centered and have many flaws and failures to account for._

_The most regrettables as of late._

_There are mistakes I made for which I am not to blame._

_There are twice as many for which I should probably deserve a life in misery until the day I day._

_I regret not many of the things that I have done, for I deemed them right and necessary at the time, but there are things of which I am deeply ashamed._

_One of those things is hurting you.'_   


 

John swallowed heavily.

The frown was back in place.  


 

_'As I mentioned before I will probably never be able to make it up to you and earn your trust and regard again, but I wanted to try._

_I wanted to stand my ground and fight for the one thing I value most...in my life._

_Your presence, your...ways of walking around in this world, have taught me lessons and things about myself that I had never dared dreaming of._

_You inspire me in my work, you ground me during the times of boredom and despair and you keep me from falling back into bad habits._

_And the time that I had to spent on my own gave me room to think and made me realise why I am who I am today._

_And who I have to thank for that.'_

  
  
Now Sherlock looked John directly in the eye and continued.  


_'I am who I am because of you._

_Because, unconsciously, I have made it my number one priority to never disappoint you, to earn your praise and approval and to never let you down.'_   


 

John swallowed again.

Harder.

His heart rate equal to a hummingbird's.  


 

 _'But I let you down.'_  
  
And at this point, Sherlock avoided John's gaze.  


_'I hurt you and I've caused you pain I didn't think I could ever understand._

_But I do now, John._

_Because to me it feels like you are already gone._

_I can still see you, like a ghost haunting me._

_I talk to you, but there is no reply._

_I live in fear that every day, every moment could be the one where you'll decide to leave me for good._

_And I suppose this...is...what it must have felt like for you.'_   


A tear escaped Sherlock's eye without his permission.

He wiped it away quickly.  


_'I haunted you, at least that's what I was told._

_And I will probably never understand the full extend...of the pain I caused you, but I want you to know, that you, John Watson, have made it worthwhile._

_All the time we had together, I will keep stored in my mind palace to cherish and continue to learn from._

_I will never forget the kindness, bravery and loyalty with which you have graced and supported me and that it can all exist in one single person is beyond my comprehension._

_I will never meet a better man than you._

_And I cannot live long enough to become even half the friend I'd want to be...for you.'_   


 

John bowed his head, silently praying Sherlock didn't yet expect a response from him, for once again he didn't trust his voice.  


 

_'I thought long about a gesture to express my gratitude and admiration for the fact that I could call you a friend, even if it only lasted for so short a time._

_Mrs Hudson told me to give you something no one else could give you._

_So this...'_   


Sherlock gestured around the room.  


_'...is my gift and my apology to you, John._

_Because I am one of the few people you allowed to truly know you.'_   


The doctor finally looked up again.  


_'I asked my brother to extract money from the trust fund I was given as a child and that I have kept, for good reason, untouched until now._

_The room you see, the entire house in fact, I bought with this money and it is now the shelter and school for less priviledged, discriminated and socially inept children and youths._

_It is a place where they can live and learn how to lead a life of responsibility, respect and tolerance in the presence of peace and harmony._

_Where they are taught, by the most extrodinary people, the values in life every single human being should bear in their minds._

_Where they learn love and acceptance for who they are, forgiveness and how to cope with failure and misery._

_Where they can be themselves and see that no matter where you come from or where you intend to go, there are people who like you for who you are and that will not let you down._

_In short, a school to teach them every virtue that you have shown towards me and that I have learned to love about you.'_   


 

John kept his eyes locked with Sherlock's.

The detective could see that the doctor was moved and was fighting to control his emotions.  


 

_'I have founded this charity where these children can live and learn and where invalided soldiers teach them._

_Because those people, like you, have faced the darkest hours a human being can ever face and have emerged from those places with experience and wisdom about life that is unvaluable._

_Most of them have struggled the same way as you did when we met, with post-traumatic-stress, a low pension and no purpose in life._

_This way, they get a secure income for helping those children become better people and they can go to sleep at night knowing that they are the most important people to walk this city not only in my eyes, but also in the eyes of everyone you see here and everyone who will learn about this organisation.'_   


He gestured around the room once more.  


_'This is my gift to you, John._

_And I hope it fills you with pride that in your name, the Captain Hamish Foundation will achieve many great things in the future by giving every single one of those kids a prospect in life they wouldn't have otherwise.'_   


John took a noisy breath and looked around the room, eyes wide in surprise.  


_'I said before that this is in no way intended to buy myself your good graces again, but I hope it will make you happy._

_If I continue failing to do so.'_   


With a look that expressed his nervousness but with a hopeful smile playing around his lips, Sherlock looked down at his friend.  
  
John's eyes met his and with his mouth slightly agape, the good doctor began to shake his head in disbelief.  


_'Sherlock...'_

John whispered not trusting his voice.  
  
The detective looked down at his feet, suddenly shy.  


_'I...'_

was all John added and then he disengaged himself of his rigour and ran away once more.


	22. Chocolate Whore

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John tries to apologise.  
> Mycroft gives advice.  
> Sherlock is a chocolate whore.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I AM SO SORRY THIS TOOK SO LONG!  
> I had a dreadful week at work for I had to worry about the threat of unemployment of a colleague who is very dear to me and I wasn't in any right mood to concentrate on writing.
> 
> I know the chapter title suggest something funny, but I'm afraid the jokes will take a few more days.  
> I promise that the resolution and reunion will happen soon, so please hold on and bear with me.  
> Life is hard and interfering.
> 
> xx

 

 

 

Breathe, Watson, breathe.  
  
Captain John Hamish Watson, formerly of the fifth Northumberland fusiliers walked along the southbank in the fading afternoon sunshine.

How he got there, he had no idea. 

He had left the counsel house in a haste to get away from his own emotions threatening to crush him.  
  
His heart was still pounding and his mind racing.  
  


This.

This.

This.

John couldn't find proper words to describe the feelings this revelation- this gift- caused him.  
  


 

_Incredible_

_Unexpected_

_Overwhelming_

_Beautiful_

_Touching_

_Uncomprehendible_

_Amazing_

_Sherlock_   
  


_I'm going to choke._

_I will die of this..._

_awe inside of me._

_Of adoration._

_Of love._   
  


Of all things in heaven and earth John hadn't seen this coming.  
  
Would have never expected Sherlock to be so...

Thoughtful.  
  
Sherlock was a master of considering options, facts, solutions.

A man of thinking and reasoning.  
  
But a man of romance?  
  
John grinned like a madman at the mental image of Sherlock holding a rose out to him.

And a box of chocolates.

And then kiss him.  
  


 

_'Oh my god.'_   
  


 

He had said that out loud.

A flock of pidgeons took sudden flight.

A person passing by stared.  
  
John grinned again.  
  


Nothing.

Nothing.

Nothing compares to this man.

No one could ever be his equal.

Good traits and bad traits, certainly.  
  
The man could drive him up the wall.

But who in the world was John Watson kidding?

It was exactly what he wanted.

What he needed.

What he craved.  
  
John had hurried down the path from the counsel house leading back to the street.

It had been too much at the moment.

The room had closed in on him, the air had been sucked out of his lungs.  
  
Sherlock Holmes didn't do such a thing.

He wasn't capable of so much decency.

He was a sociopath.

No one liked him.  
  
Except one.  
  
All of the above were the perceptions of the people Sherlock didn't want to see his true self.

People he kept at a distance.  
  
All.

But one.  
  
John.  
  
John was the exception to Sherlock's every rule.

He chose him to be his flatmate.

Had decided that John, who thought of himself as utterly boring compared to the mad genius, was the most interesting person in all of England.

He had decided that John would be capable to fulfill his expectations and willing to commit himself to the Work.

He had seen, in the fracture of a second, that John Watson was an addict all the same and that Sherlock and all that he stood for, all that he did, would be his drug.  
  
Sherlock had put faith in John, when John was at his least faithful.

Sherlock had made John smile countless times, when he felt least to smile.

Sherlock had infuriated John in so many situations...well, probably the man had deduced John's blood pressure was too low and meant to provide him with the necessary amount of adrenaline.

Who knew with Sherlock?

The man that put a dead sheep under your bed and stored dog hair in the bath room.

The man who filed away dozens of fragrances and perfumes because it might one day be handy to prove or disprove and alibi.

The man who was standing in a counsel house in Kensington watching him run away after making such a heartbreaking gift and confession.  
  


 

John froze on the spot.

Then blinked.

Suddenly it was already dark around him and he was halfway back to Baker Street.  
  
Had he really stormed off like that?

Without even giving Sherlock a hint at how much his gift had meant to him?  
  
The moment Sherlock had finished with his explanation John had only had one thought:  
  
Away.

Away.

Away.

Too much.  
  
Now he was picking up speed as he thought:  
  
Back.

Back.

Back.

Not enough.

More.  
  
  
How could he have left him standing there?

The man had just poured his heart and soul out to him, had apologized in a way that would make everyone's heart melt and he had simply ran off?  
  
Oh god.  
  
He had intended to teach Sherlock a lesson because he had been a right dick.  
  
Now he had been a proper dick in return.  
  


_Jesus._

_I need to see him._

_Now I need to apologise and tell him how much it means to me and how much I appreciate and I love you, I love you, Sherlock, dear god, I love you._   
  
  
  


As he reached the front door of 221 Baker Street, no lights were visible inside.  
  


_Shit._   
  


Had he gone to bed, disappointed?

Heartbroken?

Angry?

Or hadn't he returned home, yet either?  
  


 

_Lord, please let him be there so I can ask for his forgiveness._   
  
_I am such an idiot!_   
  


 

As he climbed up the stairs to the sitting room, he found the flat to be absolutely quiet.  
  
Not even Mrs Hudson's telly was to be heard for it was past ten already and she was probably already in bed.

Or over at Mrs Turner's.

With a bottle of sherry.

And her needlework.  
  


As he had feared, Sherlock wasn't home, so- with his head bowed in shame- John went to the kitchen table and left a note:  
  


 

_Forgive me, Sherlock._

_It was too much._

_I need to see you._   
  


 

Then he left to get changed for bed.

With an uneasy feeling in the pit of his stomach he lay his head to rest.  
  
  


* * *

 

When his phone chimed at half past six on christmas morning John Watson groaned so loud even Mrs Hudson must have heard it.  
  


_'Yes?!'_

He grumbled into his phone, eyes still closed.  
  


 

_'John! Oh my god, I'm so sorry, but we'll need you here._

_I hate to call, but it's an emergency.'_  
  
She sounded pleading.  
  


 

John sighed.

Mrs Hudson probably heard that, too.  
  


 

_'Right. Okay, Sarah._

_Give me twenty minutes.'_   
  


 

He tossed onto his nightstand, rolled over and buried his face in his pillow.

It was not okay.

He wanted to talk to Sherlock and he wanted to do it now, but at the mention of the word 'emergency' John couldn't do anything but follow his duties as a doctor.

Surely, his relationship with his best friend was currently at stake, but that had to stand back in the face of human lives endangered.  
  
  
  
When John entered the kitchen his note from the previous night was still where he had left it.

Sherlock's bedroom door was closed and the door to the bathroom open.

Unconsciously holding his breath, John went to peek inside.

The dressing gown was in its usual place, hung behind the door to the bedroom.

The sink was clean and Sherlock's toothbrush and floss were unused.

So he hadn't come home then and he hadn't read the note.   
  


 

_Fuck._   
  


 

John released the breath he had been holding.  
  
Closing his eyes, fighting down a wave of panic, he inhaled deeply, some of Sherlock's scent lingering in the room, soothing his nerves just a little.

He went to the kitchen again to get a quick breakfast.  
  
With his mind whirring and his eyes stinging from lack of sleep, he managed to lay out the table for Sherlock, too.

It was a small gesture but it was the least he could do for now to apologise and maybe Sherlock would be tempted to eat once he got home.  
  


 

_Yes, sure he will, Watson..._   
  


 

After two slices of toast and a cup of tea John went to get his jacket and checked for his keys.  
  
He then placed his note onto the plate and put the nutella jar right on top of it, but in a way the note would still be visible for the detective.  
  
Chocolate was the way to Sherlock's heart.

John had learned that over the years.

He supposed that maybe Sherlock hadn't been allowed to have much of the sweet growing up and now indulged in it whole-heartedly whenever he could.  
  
The consequence of this was that John regularly had to restock on dark chocolate digestives and nutella and his heart buzzed happily everytime he saw Sherlock walk over to the cupboard and steal one or two of the biscuits and munch on them with ardour.

Leaving not one crumb behind and licking his fingers like a...well...

_chocolate whore._   
  


John just couldn't help but smile contendedly upon picturing his friend so human and normal and behaving like many a child did when treated with a sweet.   
  
It was no surprise then, that chocolate was also one of the detective's preferred ways to stimulate his mind, leaving nicotine aside.

Whether it was the sugar or some boost of endorphins the cocoa induced in him John didn't know.

And he didn't care.

All he knew was that it made Sherlock happy and calm and that was some useful knowledge to posess.  
  
Whichever way John wanted to reach the detective and get his attention, chocolate was the bait.  
  
He smiled fondly at his little arrangement and then left, feeling like he had done at least something to apologise.  
  


 

* * *

 

Sherlock had spent hours trying to make sense of John's reaction to his gift.

As time went by and John still hadn't returned home he was convinced that John hated it.

Just as much as he apparently hated Sherlock.

He had been visibly moved by Sherlock's present and for a moment the detective had dared to hope he would be actually redeemed now.

But then John had ran off and left Sherlock standing there, between street kids and soldiers, more miserable than all of them toghether could ever be.

He hadn't let them see the tears welling up in his eyes or the choked breaths he drew as he stumbled outside looking for a trace of his doctor.

He had wandered around aimlessly, convinced that John was at home probably packing and wouldn't want to see him.

When he returned to 221b to find it empty of John, he had dashed out again immediately.

A clear sign then.

Like a beaten dog he had found his way to Mycroft's flat and seeked asylum there.

John wanted space, so he should have it.

Sherlock owed him that after weeks of demanding the doctor's attention 24 hours a day.  
  


Mycroft either wasn't surprised to find his younger brother upon his doorstep at eleven at night on christmas eve or he masked it very well, for he invited him in without further questions and immediately went to retrieve a blanket and pillow for Sherlock to sleep on the couch.

Despite having a very comfortable guest room to offer he knew Sherlock would prefer the sofa.

A habit that the younger one had developed as a child and still kept to this day in 221b as Mycroft had witnessed several times.

That the elder Holmes' sofa used to be Sherlock's place of retreat whenever the drugs had been too much or street life was finally taking its toll on him remained unsaid. 

Habits, Mycroft thought and twisted the golden band on his finger.  
  


 

_'He didn't appreciate the gesture, I presume?'_

The elder Holmes asked as he came back into the sitting room.  
  


 

Sherlock took a laboured breath, steeling himself for the conversation ahead.

He needed to talk about it, despite the  discomfort it gave him to admit his utter failure.  
  


 

_'He ran off._

_I..._

_He was moved by it, I'm sure of that, but...'_   
  


 

'But?'  
  


 

_'I went too far, Mycroft._

_I knew it from the start that it was too good to be true that I should finally find a friend._

_Someone who liked me despite...'_

Sherlock gestured at himself.  
  


 

Mycroft gave him a disapproving look.  
  


 

_'I had to cock it up, eventually._

_And what I did to him..._

_I am disgusted by myself for the horrors I have put him through over the years._

_And especially now._

_I broke all the promises I made to myself regarding him._

_Never to hurt him._

_Never to push him too far- beyond the breaking point._

_But I did and it's like I broke my favourite toy all over again.'_   
  


_'He never was your toy, Sherlock.'_  
  
Sherlock snorted in agreement.  
  


 

_'You do misunderstand what I am trying to say, I think._

_Doctor Watson is not a toy soldier, Sherlock, he is a real one, a strong man._

_He has the greatest patience I have ever observed in any human being- that he stayed with you is proof of that...'_

 

He smirked at his younger brother teasingly.

_'...he has seen death, he has seen terror, he has saved lives and he has taken them, Sherlock._

_John Watson knows that this is not a fairytale- life is not a fairytale where everything turns out to be good and fair in the end if only you are strong enough to hold on or a magic prince appears._

_And don't forget that he has his own shadows haunting him as well._

_He is not disillusioned of the ways life can lead you._

_And he's witnessed first hand how hard it can be._

_Don't think his world orbits around and depends on you.'_

 

Sherlock glared at him.

 

_'He is not a delicate flower._

_You know him, Sherlock._

_Don't you think that he might have a good reason to stay?_

_That he absolutely knows that you are not the heartless creature you try to pretend to be?_

_Do you think he is blind?_

_Sherlock, I know who you really are- no don't look at me like this- I know that inside of that skull is one of the greatest minds of the century._

_A difficult one, indeed, but a beautiful one just as much._

_Genius is never easy, never boring._

_I know it because I have the same mind to deal with._

_I know what it feels like._

_And John knows it because he lives with you!_

_He has spent every waking hour of his life at your side for more than two years and only because you allowed it._

_With the way he sees you treating other people, don't you think that he is perfectly aware that he is special to you?_

_That you are making an effort to keep him and please him?_

_What I have seen in John Watson on the very first occasion that we met, Sherlock, is that he is addicted to everything you stand for._

_He may never go back to war, not if I can help it, but he will always be a soldier._

_He needs it._

_Like oxygen to breathe._

_He needs the exitement and the danger only a war zone can provide- and you._

_But he also needs the down-times._

_The retreats to normalcy, mundanity._

_The quiet nights at Baker Street._

_Also things which you can provide._

_He needs you, Sherlock._

_Like you need him._

_He sees through your facade and he obviously likes what he sees._

_But what matters now, brother dear, is not what your mind tells you is the right way to go._

_The rational thing._

_This is not about the mind._

_It's nothing you can deduce or foresee or manipulate._

_It's a matter of the heart._

_Your heart._

_And since you have repeatedly tried in vain to reach John's, maybe it is time to change the strategy and to let John reach yours for once...'_   
  


 

Sherlock blinked and stared at his brother.

_'I..._

_I don't know how?_

_Mycroft, I have never...'_   
  


 

_'Yes, you do, Sherlock._

_You know perfectly well of what you are capable, but you do not allow others to know that part of you._

_And that is your mistake in this situation._

_John Watson is the only person I know of that you allow to see behind your walls and the one person who managed to hold your attention for longer than two weeks and he has proven himself to be not only useful but...'_

He struggled for the right word.  
  


 

_'Vital?'_

Sherlock helped.  
  


 

_'Excellent choice of word, Sherlock._

_He has the exceptional gift to keep you grounded and entertained._

_I have never seen you more balanced or at peace with yourself than since John Watson entered your life._

_You need him just as desperately as he needs you, but you are both either too blind to see it or...'_   
  


 

_'Afraid.'_

Sherlock countered.

_'I'm constantly afraid that I'll lose him._

_That I'll get him killed or I'll say or do something that makes him realise...'_   
  


 

_'Shut up, Sherlock, will you?_

_I'll have nothing of that ever again!_

_I marvel at the low esteem you sometimes seem to have for yourself!_

_How can you be so oblivious to your own happiness?_

_I know that it's not easy, especially for us and that it's a risk to take._

_I also know that it can- and I stress the word ' **can** ' - end terribly. _

_You must never forget the possibility of that, for it will make you enjoy it with every fibre of yourself._

_But let me also tell you how worth it is to take that risk._

_That you clearly will be hurt if it ends badly, but that you will never want to trade a single second of the time you had with him for anything else in the world._

_If you do not dare, you will never know and believe me it is far more painful to spent the rest of your days wondering 'what if' than to live and nurse on the memories of 'what has been'.'_  
  
Mycroft twisted his ring again.   
  


In response, Sherlock lowered his eyes to the ground.

This was something they had agreed not to talk about.

Not often at least.

Matters of the heart were difficult for the Holmes men.

From an early age they had learned to distance themselves from feelings in order not to get hurt.

Their parents never really had the chance to give them a loving, harmonic family atmosphere and so they accepted and embraced the fact that emotions were something not to be discussed or indulged on.

The experiences they made growing up assured them of the rightfulness of their choice over and over again.

They didn't see sentiment or feelings as something bad or below them, they simply didn't bother with the emotional package that everyone else constantly bemoaned and struggled with.

Life was much easier without these things to take into consideration, but once the brothers found themselves attached they couldn't stop their ever-so-busy minds from contemplating, calculating or fearing what might lie inside that darkness they were never taught how to see through.  
  


 

Swallowing audibly, Sherlock stood up and closed the distance to his brother in a few paces.

Without any further premonition he flung his arms around him and held on.

Mycroft returned the gesture whole-heartedly.  
  


 

_'I can never thank you enough, My, for being there for me._

_How many times have I caused you worry or pain or discomfort and always- always- you are there to set me right again and help me.'_   
  


 

_'It's what we are, Sherlock._

_We are brothers._

_We share the same genetics and the same thoughts._

_It's as close as I'll ever be with another person and I cherish that.'_  
  
Sherlock looked at his older sibling with adoration in his eyes.  
  


 

_'I am immensely proud of you, Sherlock._

_Every part of who you are and what you have done._

_There might be darker chapters of your life, as there are of mine, but the way you overcame them and use them, to this day, to become even better fills me with a pride and emotion I can never properly express._

_You are my little brother, Sherlock and since the day you were born I have made it my priority and responsibility to give you everything you need to be as happy as you could._

_If it is a little advice on matters of the heart that I can give you, I am very happy to help you out._

_If it is an open ear or a place to stay, I am just as willing._

_If it is a kick in the bottom to get your head out of the sand then I am even more happy to lend a hand._

_Or rather, a foot.'_  
  
To that he giggled.

An expression he solely reserved for Sherlock.  
  


 

_'Promise you won't use your umbrella this time, though.'_

His younger brother replied and filled the room with a low, rumbling chuckle.  
  


* * *

Just as the clock on the mantle struck midnight, Sherlock lay down on the couch.

He pulled the duvet up to his chin and whispered:  
  


_'Merry Christmas everyone...'_   
  



	23. Now was the time.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They finally find each other again.  
> One walks away with a suitcase in his hand.  
> Another one follows down the stairs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THERE! THERE! IT'S THERE!
> 
> FINALLY REUNION! (or at least resolution)
> 
> MAY THE FLUFF AND SMUT FOLLOW, BUT GIVE ME SOME MORE TIME FOR THAT, OKAY?... :)

 

 

 

A two-year old with serious signs of an allergic reaction towards an unknown substance.

The mother had come to the surgery almost too late.  
  
Sarah filled John in on the details.  
  


 

_'And then he started coughing even harder and as we checked, his throat was almost entirely clogged up with phlegm.'_  
  


 

 _'How can something like that possibly happen?'_  
  
John shook his head both in disbelieve and disapproval.  
  


 

_'If my kid had coughed its lungs out for the most part of the night I would have not waited so long and rushed him to a hospital immediately.'_  
  


_'Well, I would think so, too, but then we are no parents are we?'_  
  


_'No...not yet. Well...'_  
  


_'You having any news for me, John?'_

Sarah teased and playfully jabbed him with her elbow.  
  


 

_'No, god, no... I don't need a wife and kids to worry about when I got Sherlock...'_

He raised his eyebrows in mock horror at the mental image.  
  


 

Sarah said nothing but eyed him a little suspiciously.

Her gaze suddenly avoiding him, uncomfortable and not sure what to say.  
  


 

 _'I mean what he did just now...'_

John was lost in the memory of the counsel house.

Probably smiling foolishly.  
  


 

 _'Did he propose to you or what?'_

She nudged him with her elbow again, teasingly, sure that such a thing as Sherlock Holmes being capable of commiting to a relationship with anyone was simply impossible.

Her voice dripping with disbelieve.

The very sound that made John Watson's hairs stand on end.  
  


 

 _'No!'_

He spat, his temper rising rapidly.

The last couple of weeks finally taking their toll and bringing some of his anger to the surface.

Maybe some disappointment that Sherlock hadn't indeed finally clarified where he stood with John mingled in there as well.

Also, the doctor still chewed on the anger he felt for his own stupid decision of running away.  
  


 

_'Easy, John! I was just teasing.'_

Sarah tried to placate him, but failing to hide her smirk completely.  
  


 

_'Yeah, well, maybe you can stop ridiculing my best friend in front me! You, for a start, have no idea what he really is like.'_

He looked at her daring to say anything more against Sherlock.  
  


 

She was not intimidated, somehow.

_'Well, I simply do not see him as the angel you try to make everyone believe he is._

_If you were thinking rationally, John, you would realise that the way he treats you is far from what a best friend ought to behave like._

_Think of what he has done to you! The things I hear about him, John...I've met him!'_

She could not understand how John still put up with the man that had let him mourn his death for half a year.  
  


 

John fumed, pursing his lips and trying to remember at least some of his good manners.

After a couple of deep breaths, he said, voice even and levelled:

  
  
 _'You do not know him the way I do. When we are home he is...not what everyone thinks he is like. He is...'_

For a moment the doctor was lost for words.

Caught up in memories of domestic life with Sherlock that he was so close to getting back.

Just so damn close.

And yet...

_'He died for me, Sarah. He bloody well destroyed himself in order to save me. I don't know how your mind is working, but to me that is some serious proof of friendship and loyalty.'_  
  


 _And love._  
  
John thought, but didn't dare to voice it or think about it too much.  
  


 

He looked at her, again daring her to continue insulting the man he secretly loved.

  
  
 _'Yeah, well I'm sure he found something to distract himself with, without you around...'_  
  
She began.

  
  
 _'What the hell are you implying, doctor?'_

John stressed the last word, his face red with anger.

Fingers twitching.

Other people stared at them.

Their voices loud enough to be heard in the waiting room.  
  


 

_'I'm only trying to make you see that he was away from you for six months, John and you have no idea of where he's been, what he did or who he was with._

_I know that he once was an addict, John. You have told me so yourself. Look, I'm your friend, I just want you to think about it, for god's sake!_

_Are you sure you know him as well as you believe you do? Are you sure he didn't take some time off to indulge in some old habits? He left you without another word!'_  
  


 

John huffed a breath, staring at her in disbelieve, shaking his head.

_'Bloody brilliant advice, Sarah! Thanks!_

_And just for your information- I am an experienced doctor myself, who has seen many soldiers with a habit, who has an alcoholic sister and dealt with an abusive alcoholic father._

_I know an addict when I see one and there is nothing wrong with Sherlock!'_  
  


And with that, he turned on his heel and stormed out, duty about his patients forgotten.  
  
  


 

* * *

  
Sherlock inhaled deeply, eyes closed.

The smell of the sofa carried some of John's familiar scent.

His heart swelling inside of his chest and a warm feeling spreading through his stomach, he just lay there, face down on the old leather thingy.  
  
He had returned to 221b early, but with some mild trepidation as to what mood he might find John in.

If John was there at all.

Which he was not.

Though Sherlock was determinded to face the situation that would ensue sooner or later, the inevitable confrontation of both his emotions and the person they were connected to scared him.  
  
Feeling slightly pathetic about his inability and fear to finally address the most important thing that occupied his every waking moment, Sherlock scolded himself and got up from the sofa.  
  
Upon his return he had found the kitchen table laid out for him and a note from John apologising for running away.  
  
At least that was what Sherlock wanted to believe it to be.

The choice of words could imply something different just as well.

Lacking the natural ability to identify sarcasm without John's expressive face as evidence, he wasn't sure if he understood the meaning of those words correctly.  
  
For all he knew John had reacted so strongly to his christmas present that he was currently not in the mood to face or even talk to Sherlock.

He had set out for a walk, probably, spending the night at someone else's, only leaving a note behind to which Sherlock clung to with all his hope.  
  


_I need to see you._  
  


To do what?

To burn all bridges and finally leave? 

Or to redeem me and go back to how things were?

Will you tell me how much you have grown to hate me and my childish and idiotic behaviour or will you tell me something completely different?  
  


Feeling the strain of the past year tugging at his mind and body like a leaden blanket, Sherlock decided it was finally the time to risk it all and give John everything he had, every bit of information the doctor needed to understand and to form a decision.

He had nothing to lose and nothing more to give and if that wasn't enough for one Doctor John Watson then Sherlock Holmes was at his wits end.  
  


He hates me.

Or he loves me.

I love him.

And he ought to know that.

At least that.  
  


Placing the journal he had kept during his time in solitarity and a personal note upon the kitchen table where John would surely find it, he put the strawberry jam that he had bought in France and a yellow rose next to it to complete the arrangement.

Return the favour and leave breakfast for him.

And the explanation he so deserves.  
  


 

Other people might believe Sherlock to be an oblivious bastard (not John), but he had indeed some decency engrained in his bones that he had been taught in his childhood days.

One of the things that he now found useful was the knowledge about plants his grandmother had taught him.

The homeopathic benefits as well as their symbolism had been a fascinating topic for his younger self and he found that he had still stored most of it inside his mind palace' garden.  
  
A yellow rose was a universally accepted gesture of apology and as romantic as Sherlock knew John to be, the detective hoped his doctor would get the clue and give his letter a read.  
  
After those final preparations, Sherlock went into his bedroom to retrieve his suitcase from underneath his bed.

When he had finished packing the most necessary things, he placed it next to John's seat in the kitchen and added to his note the following words:  
  


 

_I am prepared for any decision._  
  


 

Then he left to give the man he loved the time and space to read, understand and decide about how they were going to spent the rest of their lives.  
  


Together.

Or alone.

Miserable.

Or happy.  
  
  


 

* * *

John stomped up the stairs to 221b and forcefully threw the sitting room door open.  
  


_'Is everyone bloody out of their minds?'_

He shouted to no one in particular, but giving his frustration room to dissipate.  
  


_'This is a nightmare. Must be.'_

He grumbled and walked towards the kitchen to fix himself a calming cup of tea.  
  


 _Oh, how british could one be?_  
  
He thought to himself and then stopped dead in his tracks when he saw the suitcase next to his preferred chair at the kitchen table.  
  


 _Oh god, no._  
  
He stepped closer.

Inspecting the thing like it was a bomb.  
  


_Suitcase still here means Sherlock is still here._

_But for how long?_

_Oh Sherlock..._

_I am sorry._  
  


He noticed the yellow rose lying on top of a journal and the decked out breakfast arrangement and reached out to inspect it.  
  
Worn out moleskin.

Coffee stains and faint trace of cigarette smoke.  
  


_Bastard._

_Jesus._  
  


Tucked into the front of the booklet was another folded piece of paper.

On the front it read in Sherlock's handwriting:

  
  
 **_To John._ **

**_This might help you understand._ **

**_And stop hating me._ **  
  
  


With shaking fingers John unfolded the note and read the message inside:  
  
  


 ** _Dear John,_**  
  
 ** _as I ran out of words trying to explain to you why I did what I did and you still refuse to talk to me, I thought you may at least decide to read this._**  
  
 ** _I have told you before how deeply sorry I am and I wish this will make you understand that it was not easy for me as well._**  
  
 ** _If you still want to leave, then, as much as it will hurt me, I have at least tried everything I could think of._**  
  
 ** _I regret that I cannot be a better friend or find the right words. I just don't know what to do. It pains me to admit that by now I feel absolutely helpless._**  
  
 ** _Obviously I fail to be the friend for you that I wanted to be._**  
  
 ** _Forgive me._**  
  
 ** _But please read this._**  
  
  
  
 ** _Sherlock._**  
  
  
  
Drawing a very deep and shaky breath, John sat down on the chair and opened the journal.  
  
With an icy feeling in his gut he began to read.  
  
  


* * *

Hampstead Heath.

Of all the places in London it was Sherlock's favourite place to retreat to when he needed to be alone.

Room to breathe.

So much room.

The beauty of it was undescribable to people who had never been there.

Barely fifteen minutes by tube and a brisk walk later and one found themselves completely engulfed in the midst of nature.

No sounds of London.

No buildings.

No smell of the city life.

No people at all if you were lucky.

Only its blissful peace and quiet to comfort your very soul.  
  
He walked along the path and past bushes and trees, on and on, with no definite destination in mind.  
  
What would John do?

How would he react?

What would he feel towards Sherlock?  
  
Scowling upon his emotional deficiencies, he marched on, hoping with every fibre of his heart that John would hear him out and forgive him.

That everything would turn out to be fine.  
  


_It's all fine._  
  
  
  
  


* * *

John swallowed.

Hard.

He only realised that he was crying when the letters in front of him started to blur in a wave of pain, confusion, relief and sorrow crashing into him with a force stronger than the jezail bullet had been.

Like a real, physical weight the revelations in front of him tugged at his heart, filled his core with warmth and terror at the same time, because Sherlock loved him just as much and Sherlock was...  
  


Gone.  
  
  
  


* * *

Fine.

Fine.

Nothing's fine in a world where Sherlock Holmes and John Watson are not together, side by side, living in each other's presence and giving each other all they had to give.  
  


_Life's a bitch._  
  


Sherlock thought and marched on.  
  
  
  


* * *

As he turned the last page, John found a post scriptum scrawled upon the paper in unsteady pencil handwriting:  
  


 

 ** _P.S.:_**  
  
 ** _The worst part of this entire thing, was not being on my own in France and not even the knowledge of you being hurt and alone at home-_**  
  
 ** _It was that moment when I lay on the ground, as conscious and aware as I have ever been in my entire life and seeing you reaching out for my hand, trying to feel my pulse- ever the responsible doctor._**  
  
 ** _I was internally screaming, wishing I could stop all this, right there and then and tell you the truth, but knowing, that if I did, I would loose you forever- I wouldn't be able to save you._**  
  
 ** _I may be a genius, but even geniuses are helpless when it comes to bullets._**  
  
 ** _I couldn't._**  
  
 ** _I just couldn't risk it._**  
  
 ** _I'm sorry._**  
  
  
  
 ** _I pray to all deities, whether they exist or not, that one day you might be able to forgive me._**  
  
 ** _One day._**  
  
  
  
 ** _Believe me to be, my dear John,_**  
  
 ** _very sincerely yours,_**  
  
 ** _Sherlock_**  
  
  
  
And with that, the booklet dropped out of John's hand as he jumped out of his chair as if the words in front of him were harmful, burning and charring his skin where he had touched the pages and threatening to choke him.  
  


_No._

_No, no, no, no, no._  
  
 _This is not right._

_This is never right if you are not with me._  
  
  
  


* * *

_Life's a bitch, but so am I._

_The world taught me, so fuck you._  
  


Sherlock recalled the lyrics of a song he had once heard lying half-conscious in a drug den, high on cocaine or something...

He couldn't recall it correctly.

And he didn't want to.

Enough painful memories to deal with.

Enough feelings of shame and guilt already.  
  
But the words held a certain wisdom for him, now that he reached the end of the path, the red brick building to his left and he began to walk back to the tube station.  
  


_I am not done, yet._

_I am not done fighting for you, John Watson._  
  
  
  
  


* * *

John paced the sitting room like a tiger trapped in a cage.

_What to do?_

_Where is he?_

_Should I wait here?_

_Wait for him to return?_

_Will he return?_

_Or does he expect me to find him?_

_Can I bear to sit here, doing nothing, going insane while I wait?_

_What if I go out looking for him and he comes back and we miss each other once more?_  
  
 _Inacceptable._  
  


 

John rushed to the desk by the window to get a sheet of paper.

Hastily he wrote a note to Sherlock once more:  
  


  
 **_I read it and I understand, Sherlock._ **

**_I will go now, trying to find you._ **

**_If you return before I do and you read this, please stay here._ **

**_I will be back at six._ **

**_Please be here when I come home, Sherlock._ **

**_We need to talk about what happened to us._ **

**_We just can't go on like this._ **  
  
  


Dropping the pen and rubbing at his eyes once more, John grabbed his jacket and stormed out to find the man he loved with every fibre of his being.  
  


_Now was the time to change._

_Change everything._

  
Now was the time.  
  
  
  


 

* * *

The tube ride back to Baker Street was unbearable.

People standing, trying to find a piece of rail to hold onto, the carriage packed with minions of the city on their way home from work.

Pissed off, tired, bored.  
  
Sherlock sat amidst them.  
  
  
  


* * *

When John closed the front door of 221b behind him, he felt lost.  
  
Where?

Where could he be?

Mycroft?

Certainly not.

Bart's?

Yes, that was definately an option, since it was one of Sherlock's favourite places to be.

But right now?

He probably wasn't in the mood to face other people, needing time to think and sort through his emotions.  
  
And he is on his own.  
  


_I should be with him._

_There for him._

_Guide him._  
  
 _He's not good with emotion._

_Hell, he has the understanding of a ten-year-old when it comes to them, from what I know._

_He's decided to purge them in order to function properly._

_Why, I have no idea, but he shouldn't be alone with this onslaught of foreign feeling._

_God knows, it can be overwhemling for any normal person, me included._

_What must it be like for him?_

_To figure this out?_

_To understand it?_

_To embrace it?_  
  
 _Does he embrace it?_

_He understands what love means, what it is._

_He is not an oblivious idiot when it comes to sentiment._

_The fact that he chooses rather not to be bothered by it doesn't mean he doesn't know what he'd be dealing with._

_In fact, he must be so sensitive to emotions, they must run so deep in him, that they would cripple him at times, unless he purges them completely._

_Thus, he shuts them out._  
  


_Jesus._

_He's a vulcan._

_I am in love with a vulcan._

_And it makes so much bloody sense._

_All that intelligence, the aloofness, the curiosity, the boredom when idle, being different, being aware of the insults, choosing not to feel rather than to get hurt all the time..._  
  


_It's precious._

_He's so goddamn precious._

_And he chose me to know._

_To expose his true nature to._

_Trusts me enough not to hurt him._

_To understand him._

_To love him how he really is._

_Who he really is._  
  


_A brilliant man._

_With a brilliant mind._

_And tender heart._  
  
  
  


* * *

_'The next station is Baker Street. Exit for the Royal Institute of Blind People and Madame Tussaud's.'_  
  


* * *

_Where?_

_Where are you, Sherlock?_

_Where have you_ gone?  
  


* * *

_'This is a customer service announcement...'_  
  
Sherlock only faintly recognised any sounds apart from the screaming in his head.

As he stumbled up the stairs of Baker Street Station, he felt like he was enveloped by a cloud of gloom.

Everyone seemed to avoid crossing his path, making sure they didn't slow him down or block his way.

As if they could read on his face just how tired the man was and how he yearned for a resolution of his situation.

How he simply wanted to lie down and finally sleep in contented silence once more, knowing that there was still one person, one man that still believed in him.

Still loved him, despite of who he was and what he'd done.  
  
It seemed as if London was eager to help esing his way as he crossed the street once more and marched on towards the door of his home.

The one place where he was allowed to be Sherlock Holmes, the human being behind the mask.  
  
  


* * *

_'Thanks Angelo.'_

John replied and cut the line.

Another dead end.  
  
  


* * *

One, two, three, four, five...

Seventeen steps.

Four floorboards creaking.

One man.

And a letter.

 

When Sherlock had re-read the few lines John had left him, he turned away from the windows and slowly walked towards the kitchen table.

Staring at the untouched breakfast he himself had arranged earlier for his flatmate, bile was rising in his throat.  
  
Was he that useless when it came to fixing things of an emotional nature?

How could he not decide wether John was still mad or had forgiven him?

Why was it so hard for him to understand this?

How could he ever understand the depths of the human heart, the love inside of him and the love that John once might have felt for him in return when he couldn't even make up his mind about a few lines written in John's handwriting?  
  
Did John plan to explain to him face to face, like real men do, how he was sick of Sherlock's childish behaviour and his incapability to act like a normal human being?

To come to terms with his feelings and not hurt everyone close to him?

The few people that there were...  
  
He picked up the suitcase.

Its weight seemed to tug at his heart even further.

This was it.

This was all that was left of the greatest time of his life.

A suitcase of clothing and the terrifying certainty that Sherlock Holmes would always sabotage himself and the people surrounding him.

That he would die working one of his cases and no one would be there in the end.

Who would want to be?

Who would, when he would always be the man he had spent years to shape?

Carving himself out of a marble of indifference, sharp edges that could cut anyone who dared to come close enough so that Sherlock got uncomfortable or dared to try and reach out for him, touch him.

Standing on a pedestal that labelled him 'Freak' with no further explanation as to how he came to be like this.

What had happened to turn a rather happy and careless child into a machine, what made him close in on himself and hide away behind this mask he was wearing for the outside world.  
  


When Sherlock felt the slow drag of a bead of moisture on his cheek, he chuckled sadly.

It seemed that finally the mask had dropped.  
  
  


 

* * *

_'Okay, thanks Mycroft.'_

Well that had been a pain.

As John ended the call he saw the time displayed on the tiny device.  
  
17:48.  
  
It was time to go home.  
  
  
  
  


* * *

Sherlock stood facing the window, his hands clasped behind his back.

The packed suitcase stood next to his feet.  
  
John's return was announced once more by creaking floorboards as he slowly walked up the stairs.  
  
Once he reached the landing and stood in the doorway, Sherlock turned to face him.  
  
The doctor had already seen his flatmate standing at the window as he had walked towards the building.

A wave of relief had washed through him at that.  
  
Now John's gaze dropped to the suitcase, a cold hand clasping his heart once more, then back up to Sherlock's tired face.  
  
The man looked as if someone had died.

Which probably was true.  
  
The connection between the two of them had always been strong, almost palpable.

Like a living thing.

A bond neither of them had ever experienced before.  
  


 

 _Not even with army mates in life and death situations._  
  
John mused.  
  


 

Sherlock knew that it was strained.

Damaged.

Hurt.

Whatever it was between them, it wasn't what it used to be, wasn't there anymore in the familiar way they both knew and the other man obviously mourned that.  
  
Drawing a deep breath, the taller man stood.

Saying nothing. Staring into empty space.  
  
  


 _'So you've decided, then'_

John's voice was calm.

A little uncertain.

His gaze was steady.

Ready for battle.  
  


 

_'I am awaiting your decision._

_I think I know now how you feel about me and I am aware of what I put you through._

_I am prepared for everything._

_Have **you** come to a decision, John?'_  
  
His fists clenched at the side of his body.  
  


 

'Yes, yes I have.'

John cleared his throat.

Still holding Sherlock's eyes.  
  


 

A long, tense stare filled the silence.

Silence between them.  
  


And in this moment, upon seeing the pained look in his doctor's eyes, Sherlock's world fell apart once more.

Only this time it left him tumbling down deeper than he'd ever thought possible.

The man he used to be lay shattered beneath his feet and all that remained of his former self was a cloud of smoke and ashes.

With another deep breath he braced himself for the inevitable.  
  


_'I am not who I once was._

_And this time I will make the right decision._

_For you._

_Screw how I feel, but I never meant for us to become this._

_Strangers._

_With no words._

_No smiles._

_No warmth.'_

  
Sherlock's voice broke.

As if the words clogged up his throat and blocked his airway, he choked them out one by one.  
  


_'I miss your smiles._

_I miss your warmth._

_I miss you standing by my side._

_Close enough to touch._

_And yet I so rarely did._

_Another missed chance._

_Another decision to hate myself for._

_Another chapter of my life gone horribly against all expectations._

_All hopes.'_  
  


 

John was stunned into silence.

A frown set so deep in his features his face might tear into shreds.  
  
He couldn't move.

Couldn't speak.

He wanted to step close, hug the man who had just poured out his heart, opened up like he had never done before.

Shared with John his most intimate feelings and thoughts and laid his heart into John's capable hands.  
  
But he couldn't move.

Hands shaking with fear, he swallowed, desperately trying to find a way.

Failing.

 

After another moment of uncomfortable silence, Sherlock gave a quick nod, as if understanding.

He picked up the suitcase from the floor next to him and slowly walked past John.

For a moment he hesitated, then put hand on his John's shoulder one last time before he walked out for good.  
  


Like a dog beaten, with his head hanging, he moved down the stairs.

Staring at the back of the door, he stilled.

Only for a moment.  
  


 

_'If you honestly think I would let you go again, after all this..._

_...that I would live without you, ever again-_

_Then you really are an idiot...'_  
  


 

Sherlock heart clenched, then released.

He didn't dare turning around, didn't want this to be a hallucination, didn't want to turn and see the painful truth- that his mind was now playing torturous tricks on him.

Then he heard the creak on the stairs.

And as he finally found the wits to turn around, he saw John standing, five steps up, smiling.  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is not the end!  
> There will be a few more chapters in this fic I think and then I plan to go and explore domestic life a bit more.  
> I am planning to go a bit deeper^^


	24. Together. From here on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a quick one, my dearest, as I am currently down with a cold. My voice is pretty much non-existent, so no work for me, thanks, but some time to kill at home, writing. Until the headaches return...

 

 

**It's deafening without a sound.**

**It sends shivers down your spine without touching you at all.**

**It envelops you with no arms or body.**

**It chokes you without leaving a bruise.**   
  


**Silence is what follows when your heart and mind are numb.**

**When they cannot seem to find a way to communicate with one another.**

**When you stare and breathe, but no thought will catch in your grasp and a beat or two are skipped.**

**The rhythm of your existence comes to a stuttering halt, anticipating the big nothing.**

**Dread and hope mingling in your mind.**

**Bonding, tearing apart, a fusion of confusion, an undisturbable fog inside of your head and in front of your eyes.**   
  


**Silence is what follows when suddenly all your dreams come true.**

**All your hopes are fulfilled.**   
  


**Silence.**

**And then one movement, one word- can shatter it all.**

**Break you apart, or finally make you whole again.**   
  
  


 

Gaping like a fish out of the water, Sherlock Holmes stared at John Watson standing on those familiar stairs, smiling down upon him.

And the relief that washed through him in that moment, was so incredibly intense, that his knees almost gave out, only his crutch giving him enough support to stand upright.  
  
And when John Watson saw how it affected his friend- his love- right now, he rushed forward, down those five steps that seperated them, that seemed like an ocean, too much space, too far apart, to close his arms around the other man, hold him, keep him from falling to pieces, hug him.

Just like the other one had wanted for so long.  
  


 

_'Sherlock...'_

He whispered and buried his face in the other man's shoulder.  
  


The taller man said nothing.

Still staring into empty space.

Trying to find the words- so many words.

Not enough to articulate what he felt right now.  
  


A loud thud caused John to look up at the other man.

See him blink.

Once.

Twice.

Still staring.

Not caring about the sound.

Then- lowering his eyes.

Meeting his.

Looking down into the space between them.

None.

No gap.

Nothing keeping them apart.

Finally.  
  
Bodies flush in their embrace, they stood.  
  


They glanced at the suitcase that Sherlock had just dropped.

And both watched as he let go of his crutch, completely relying on the doctor for support now.

A wake-up call to tear them out of their daze.

And so Sherlock lifted his arms, engulfed the smaller man in a tight hold as if never to let him go again.  
  


 

_'My...'_

He whispered, then fell silent again.  
  


No words required.

No words to be found.

Street noise.

London alive.

The two of them alive.

Still.

Together.

At last.  
  


 

_'So long...'_

John murmurs into Sherlock's shoulder, face once more plastered into the jacket of his suit.  
  
 _'I waited so long...'_  
  


 

And then a hand.

At the back of the doctor's neck.

Just lying there.

Touch.

Gentle.

Light.

Warm skin on skin.  
  
And John looked up once more.

Looked into those undescribable eyes.

Their colour stormy, the pupils blown wide, adrenalin, serotonin, dopamin.

What a mixture.

  
And just this gesture-

Sherlock placing his big, warm hand onto his neck was so simple, so innocent, and yet so intimate that it stole John's breath.

He stared.

And Sherlock stared back.

And then he lowered said hand to peel John's arm away from him- only for a second- until he got hold of his fingers.

Wrapping his around John's.

A tight hold.  
  


 

_'Together. From here on.'_

He said.

Staring into John's incredibly blue eyes.

Those expressive, round, gentle eyes. 

And John nodded.

And tugged at the hand to lead them both upstairs again.

And once there, he lifted their entwined hands to his chest, placed the taller man's palm flat over his heart, covering it with his own fingers and murmured into the silence:  
  


 

_'Together. From here on.'_

And his heart skipped another beat.  
  



	25. The start of something new

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things develop. Slowly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> With the headaches kept at bay thanks to paracetamol (YAY!) I found some time and muse to write.  
> I hope it isn't too cheesy?  
> It's probably still rather angsty, but in a good-*squeal*-it's-so-fluffly-I'm-gonna-die-way.

 

 

 

**I crave your touch.**

**I yearn for your warmth.**

**I long for the sound of your voice.**   
  


They stood, staring at each other, in the middle of their sitting room, all time forgotten, all pain.  
  
They stared.

Unsure of what to do next.

Longing for a touch, an embrace, something more, but reluctant to move, afraid that this reality might shatter and they would find themselves back inside the nightmare again.  
  
Breathing, standing so close it fanned each others face and staring.

No words fit to describe the feelings inside of them.

Yearning to bubble up, get to the outside, be formed into words, expressed, given, never to be taken back.  


Not yet.

Enjoy.

Enjoy these moments of peace.

Breathe a shared breath.

Wait.  


Anticipation so strong.

Almost palpable.

Their bond restored.

Stronger than before.  


Bonded.

Together.

From now on.  


Silence.

Only the street noise and the low tick of the clock on the kitchen wall.  


 

A deep breath.

Then:  


_'John...'_

 

_'Yes?'_

 

_'I'd rather sit down.'_

 

_'Of course.'_   


And a hand that has healed many wounds in more than one warzone, clasped the delicate fingers that could make a violin so much as moan under their barest touch and led the man attached to them towards the sofa.

Once there, he placed his other hand reassuringly onto the back of the detective and eased him into the cushions of the leather seat, then sat down himself.  


 

_'Thank you.'_

 

_'It's about time.'_   


And they stared at one another once more.  


_'I've missed out on this for far too long._

_I'm here, Sherlock._

_If you need me.'_   


 

A flash of a smirk appeared on Sherlock's face before he said:  
  
 _'Why would I need you?'_  


A tease.  


_'No reason at all._

_I'll give you a call...'_   


And the doctor's mock attempt to stand up and leave was prohibited by a strong arm wrapping itself around his waist and a fuzzy head leaning against his side.  
  
A fond smile appeared on John's face and he raised his right hand to gently thread his fingers through Sherlock's hair.  
  
He did not expect to hear a choked breath upon touching the other man, all the bottled up emotions of the past months finally erupting from their core, and as he looked down, Sherlock's face was scrunched into a mask of pain.  
  
Easing his hand out of the messy curls he crouched in front of the sofa to properly look at his flatmate.  
  
Sherlock sat, his head bowed as if in shame, not daring to let John see his face, but the doctor couldn't be fooled.

Understood too well what was going on inside of the other man.

Had felt, had cried, had screamed because of this.

It was time to let it all out.

Let it out and let it die.

Bury it and move on.

Next chapter.

Next paragraph.

New story.

New life.  


John raised his hand and cupped Sherlock's cheek, urging him to lift his head, so that he could look into his eyes.  
  
And when the detective did just that, the utter sadness in those gorgeous eyes hit John like a train.

His heart skipping another beat, adrenaline flooding his bloodstream.

A feeling of dread.  
  
But he didn't let go.

Never let go, because this- this is it.

This is the moment.  


 

_'This is you and me together._

_This is the start of something new._

_Something beautiful._

_And if this was the only way to get here, if all the pain was necessary, then praise the Lord and be my witness, I am glad we came through._

_If all this time that we had to endure was the price to be paid to get this- you and me together- then I shall never ask for anything more and I shall be a poor man for the rest of my life-_

_but it is a life shared with you.'_

 

Gently, John rubbed his thumb over Sherlock's cheekbone, feeling the tracks of the tears that now pooled on his hands.

Hands that he had tightly clasped upon his thighs.  


 

_'Relief._

_And the bittersweet sensation of lingering guilt._

_Isn't that what you feel right now, Sherlock?_

_Because that's pretty much the way I felt ever since I saw you in that hospital bed...'_   


Like a whisper the words reached the detectives ears.

And as John took his tear-stained hands into his, gently, oh so gently, he raised his head and looked at him in earnest.  


 

_'I almost destroyed the most valuable thing in my life, John- your trust._

_Being able to rely on you._

_I needed you._

_I needed you all this time._

_And I need you so much, still.'_   


He choked out before a sob shook his entire frame.

He bit it back, rather unsuccessfully but never let his eyes leave John's face.  
 

 

_'I understand.'_

The doctor whispered and stroked his face once more.  
  
 _'I understand.'_  


And his other hand lifts to cradle the back of Sherlock's head.

As if stung, the other man shivered, closed his eyes, but instantly leaned into the touch, this gesture being the first gentle touch in a very long time.  


 

_'Do you understand, too?'_

The doctor asked.

His eyes roaming over Sherlock's face as if searching for an answer there.  


 

_'Yes.'_

A silent whisper.

Confession of the heart.

Deep inside.  


 

_'Can you imagine what it was like to be in my position?'_

John enquired and rubbed a tear away from taut skin.  


 

_'Can you imagine mine?'_

Sherlock answered.

Voice tiny.

Like a scolded school-boy.  


 

_'I buried you and mourned you, Sherlock, thinking you would never come back._

_I went through living hell because of you.'_

The truth, from the core of his heart, spoken with no venom, no accusation.

A stated fact.

Something the detective knew too well.

 

 _'And I went through living hell **for** you!'_  
  
There was a moment of silence, both men stunned into it by their frankness, the sharp edges of the words, that weren't meant as a reproach, but as an explanation.  


 

**My soul.**

**This is how it felt.**

**I know that you know.**

**We were on our own and yet we went through this together.**   


 

_'I watched you go through all that.'_

Sherlock finally broke the silence.  


 

_'What?'_

The doctor answered confused.  


 

_'I lay on the pavement at Bart's as conscious as I have ever been, John._

_And I saw you._

_I heard you..._

_I heard what you said._

_And I wished I could tell you._

_Tell you that it's all just a trick._

_But that would have meant your death._

_And then I would have been in your exact position but with the certain knowledge that it was definite and I was the one responsible for.'_   


And for the first time, Sherlock couldn't bear to look at John any longer.

Couldn't return his usual intimidatingly steady stare.

Too weak.

Too ashamed, he attempted to turn his head away.

The doctor wouldn't let him.  


 

_'I felt responsible for not helping you._

_For not seeing it coming...'_   


 

_'I would have blamed myself for your death until the day I died._

_I had to make sure you were safe._

_At all costs._

_I'm sorry, John._

_I'm so sorry...'_   


And again tears streamed down the detective's cheeks.

Like a flood barrier torn open, he let go of all the restricted emotions he had forbid himself to feel.

To face.

To accept.  


 

_'Don't be, Sherlock._

_You don't need to be sorry._

_You did it to save my life._

_You._

_saved._

_my._

_life._

_Sacrificing yours._

_There's no way you should ever apologize for that.'_   


A choked breath escaped the doctor's throat.

Tears flowing down his face as well now.  


_'I don't want any more of this._

_Of feeling guilty and sad and angry._

_Can't we just move on?_

_Sherlock?_

_Can we?'_   


 

It was too much.

And yet not ever enough.

The hopeful, longing expression on John's face tugged at Sherlock's heart, made it swell and ache and pulse as if John's mere presence was affecting him so much, able to break the shackles that Sherlock had put upon himself years ago.  
  
Without thinking, the detective raised his hands to John's face, making the two of them sit in a mirrored expression of tenderness and love, longing for more.

So much more.  


And then, time seemed to come to a halt.

As if the earth centered around those two men, engulfed in their love and adoration for each other, their care, their pain, their ardour and all the days that were yet to come.

 

A nanosecond stretched into a lightyear.

Every breath, every blink, every pump of their hearts an eternity shared between just the two of them.

Their own definiton of time.

Their place in the unique universe of 221b Baker Street, just the two of them, the rest of the world forgotten.

 

Where Sherlock Holmes could be just as ordinary and vulnerable as any other man, where he could be himself without fearing to be mocked or laughed about or hurt.

Where there was a scarred army-surgeon waiting for him, tending to his wounds, putting up with his extraordinarities, his insecurities, his childishness.

 

Where doctor John Watson could rub his leg, the testament of a very real injury that had caused a very real psychological trauma.

Something most people might be ashamed of, but something he knew his flatmate and friend would never make fun of, poke at, or think of him as any lesser for.

Where he didn't have to find excuses if his shoulder hurt too much to carry all the shopping and where the mad genius would pull him out of his own depressive state while he would struggle to entertain him to keep him from slipping into an epic sulk.

 

This was their world, their tiny little universe where a sun of madness and a moon of undying love evolved around them, enlightened them and kept them grounded, defying the laws of gravity, of established social norms and crime fighting methods.  


And just as Sherlock Holmes leaned in to gently press a kiss against John Watson's eager lips, a thin ray of sunshine hit them both through the sitting room window of 221b.  



	26. Nervous Butterflies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Progress...a bit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, life keeps interfering (hello potential knee and back surgery!). Have to sort some medical stuff out, so bear with me.  
> Here a short one, more to follow soon (hopefully)!

 

 

 

**Touch me.**

**Give your lips to me.**

**Surrender them.**

**Let me feast.**

**Let me savour them.**   
  


 

The barest touch and yet an explosion of neurotransmitters shooting through their brains.

How the simple press of skin on skin could cause such intense emotion was beyond both of their comprehension.

Although both could probably easily explain the scientific scheme behind it, neither of them had the brain capacity to waste even a single thought on it.  
  


Just once.

Just once did Sherlock press his lips to John's in a bold surge of curiosity and need for reassurance.

Just once.

Chaste.

A ghost of a kiss.  
  
Then Mrs Hudson came in.  
  


_'Woohoo, boys! Someone left a suitcase downstairs and I thought..._

_You're not splitting up, are you?_

_It would be such a shame, you know, now that you finally have each other...'_   
  


 

_'No, Mrs Hudson, we are not splitting up. In fact we were only just getting together...'_

John declared with a chuckle at the innuendo, still crouching in front of the sofa.  
  


 

Sherlock stood, suddenly embarrassed.  
  


_'I- well, I'll better put that away, then._

_I take it, John, that I won't need this unless for a case abroad?'_

He said with a knowing twist of his lips.  
  


 

_'Nope.'_

He emphasized with a slight popping-sound at the 'P'.  
  


 

_'Excellent.'_

Sherlock muttered and descended the stairs to retrieve his now-useless suitcase.  
  


 

In the meantime Mrs Hudson still stood in the door to their sitting room, looking as smug as any woman who was very, very proud of her sons.  
  


 

_'So...'_

She began.  
  


 

_'Yes, well._

_Everything sorted._

_Everything fine, thank god.'_   
  


 

_'Did you kiss him?'_

  
  
_'Mrs...Martha!'_

He hissed teasingly, blushing slightly.  
  


 

_'Oh, come on, John._

_Give yourself a little treat, would you?_

_You so deserve it after all this time...all that suffering...'_  
  
A thud made her turn in surprise.  
  


 

Sherlock stood right behind her, suitcase dropped at his feet once more, staring straight at John.  
  


 

_'Tell me.'_

He said flatly.  
  


 

_'Sherlock...'_   
  


 

_'Tell me._

_All of it._

_Please.'_

He pressed.  
  


 

_'I don't think you two should...'_   
  


 

Sherlock stopped her mid-sentence with a dramatic sigh.  
  
 _'Martha, just once, forgive me, but do shut up.'_  
  


 

_'Sherlock!'_

John interrupted, getting angry on behalf of their landlady.  
  


 

_'This will be discussed.'_

The detective pressed.  
  


 

_'Fine. But not here.'_

The doctor answered, then walked past Mrs Hudson, picked up Sherlock's suitcase and walked towards the other man's bedroom.  
  


He knew he would follow.  
  


 

Once inside and with the door shut tightly, John hauled the suitcase onto the bed and started unpacking it, violently.  
  
Sherlock just stood, watching.  
  
After a few moments both their tempers had cooled down and John began to resolve the issue as smoothly as possible.  
  


_'If you really want to burden yourself with every painful detail, Sherlock, if you really want to know how much I suffered, then I will show you._

_But-'_

And with that he turned towards the other man and raised his forefinger to underline the importance of what he was about to say.  
  


_'-I will show you._

_As much at a time as I think you can take._

_And you will-'_

He raised his flat palm to Sherlock's face as he opened his mouth to protest.  
  


_'-you will not run away, or shut yourself in your mind palace making all sorts of false deductions-_

_you will talk to me and ask questions if you don't understand or...whatever-_

_because frankly Sherlock, I think neither of us ever had to deal with such a thing before and we are in this together so we will get out of this together as well._

_Together.'_  
  
He stressed the last word by stepping closer.  
  


_'I mean it, Sherlock._

_I don't ever want to loose you again._

_I never had such a thing-_

_such a...love I held for another person._

_So I want us to be absolutely frank and clear about what has been and what will be, alright?_

_Because if we are not, we are doomed._

_Honesty- number one rule, alright?'_

 

Sherlock stared at him.

Blinked.

Once.

Twice.

Muscles in his jaw twitching.

Then his eyes softened.  
  


 

_'You kept a blog.'_

Stated fact.  
  


 

_'Yes._

_Yes I did._

_So did you, sort of._

_You let me read it.'_   
  


 

_'I want to read yours.'_   
  


 

_'You will._

_But together with me, alright?_

_Because from what I can judge, mine is a bit heavier to take than yours on the word count.'_   
  


 

The detective gave him a confused look.  
  


 

_'Colourful metaphors and stuff?_

_Hard to understand?_

_Incoherent...you know what, never mind._

_You- unpack._

_I will make a pot of tea, apologize to Mrs H and make sure she gives us some space and then I'll show you, ok?'_   
  


 

Sherlock nodded in response.

As John made for the door, the taller man caught his arm to still him, then he leaned in and kissed his cheek shyly, immediately getting back to unpacking his clothes afterwards.  
  
John walked out into the kitchen with a nervous knot inside his stomach. 

Nervous butterflies.  
  
  
  


* * *

 

 

A cup of tea poured for both of them, John settled himself onto the sofa next to Sherlock with his laptop resting on his knees.  
  


 

_'You don't have to do it, John.'_

Sherlock almost whispered.   
  


 

After the chaste kiss from earlier, the detective kept his distance again, unsure of how much touch was now allowed between them.

They both knew what the other felt, but neither of them had said it out loud so far, so the boundaries were still blurred and Sherlock was genuinely afraid of pushing his luck too far.  
  
A little confused, John looked up from his laptop, eyeing his flatmate suspiciously, but saying nothing.

 

_'Honesty, you said._

_I honestly think that- as you put your heart and soul into this- this is...far too personal...and I have no right to demand of you...'_   
  


Lost for words, Sherlock trailed off.  
  


 

_'No. You're right, Sherlock- this is my heart and soul, written out in words._

_This is the account of the hardest time of my life, apart from almost dying in the desert sand- but it's about me **AND** you. _

_It's me and you now, so you have a right- an actual right- and you need to hear this so we can avoid such a thing from ever happening again, okay?_

_No lies, no misunderstandings, no I-can-handle-this-on-my-own-and-don't-need-to-consult-my-partner from now on._

_You._

_And me._

_Together.'_

  
Sherlock nodded.

The look on his face betraying just how uncomfortable he was.  
  


 

_'Sherlock...'_

John said, as he leaned forward and put a hand on his friend's knee to get his sole attention.

 

_'...this is hard, I know._

_But this is the hardest it will ever get...and I need to get over this once and for all- **WE** need to get over this. _

_The only way we **CAN** properly do that is by understanding what it felt like- for both of us. _

_You went first, so now it's my turn._

_Hm?'_   
  


He looked up at his flatmate with puppy eyes.

The other man drew a deep breath, looked at the hand still resting on his knee for a long moment, then placed his big, delicate hand over John's.  
  


 

_'Tell me.'_


	27. Two hearts replete with ardour

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> HERE THE FLUFF BEGINS!  
> FINALLY!
> 
> Again, I'm sorry for the delay, but back surgery is scheduled for tomorrow and there have been things to sort before that.  
> But I have more in the pipeline to post over the next few days.
> 
> For those who have read 'Tell me' and recognise some parts:  
> Yes, I am incorporating it into this part of the series, because it was the one that sparked the idea for the entire thing.  
> I wrote it, then felt the need for a backstory to that and here we are!  
> I now have to adapt it to match the rest of the storyark and writing style but I hope I'm doing a decent job.  
> Let me know if it sucks! ;)

 

 

 

 

_'Stop._

_Please John, I can't...'_

 

The detective struggled for words.

 

_'Too much...'_

 

And suddenly he stood.

With his hands fisted in his hair, he started pacing across the living room.  
  


_'How could I...?_

_How...?'_

 

He turned and twisted, as if he was looking for a hole in the ground that he could jump into and vanish.

Leave this place.

Die in shame.  
  


 

_'Sherlock...'_

 

John tried to placate him.

He put his laptop aside and stood as well.

Made to walk over to his tall friend.

  
  
_'...we can stop here._

_I don't mean to make you feel guilty or ashamed._

_I don't want you to feel miserable because of this...'_

 

He gestured behind himself to where his computer rested on the couch.  
  


Sherlock snorted sarcastically.

_'You don't want **ME** to feel miserable, when all I did to you was torture you emotionally and now expect you to forgive it- '_

 

He snapped his fingers,

_'-just like that.'_   
  


 

_'I have not forgiven you **JUST LIKE THAT** , Sherlock! _

_I have taken my time to sort through my thoughts and feelings once you were back- as did you- but it was never an option for me **NOT** to forgive you! _

_It was only a matter of **WHEN**!'_   
  


 

_'How?_

_Why?_

_John, I don't understand how you can possibly do that?_

_I've bereft you of every joy you had in your life from what I've just heard and that only were the first ten pages!_

_How you can do it, I have no idea._

_You shouldn't do this._

_**I** should have never done this, but I had no other choice. _

_**You** could have...'_

 

  
  
_'I never had a choice, either, Sherlock!'_

John interrupted him.  
  


_'Do you honestly think I could ever let go of you?_

_After all that you have done for me?'_

 

  
  
_'To you._

_You mean 'done to you''_

 

  
_'Can you stop assuming what I feel, you sod?!_

_Yes, I **DID** suffer, yes it **WAS** torture and yes I **DID** wish I could join you being dead, because frankly Sherlock, life without you was no life at all, it was mere existence without any sense or point. _

_But I was **NOT** the only one who felt utterly miserable in the past six months! _

_You!_

_You, Sherlock- whatever- A.-C.-stands-for-Holmes suffered just as much!_

_And who am I to deny you redemption and forgiveness?_

_Who am I not to love you with all that I am and all that I have now that I get a second chance?_

_Who am I to let the best thing I ever had in my life go to waste?'_   
  


The detective swayed slightly.  
  


_'Because you broke my trust?_

_Hurt my pride?_

_I am better than that, Sherlock and you ought to know that!_

_To you I am loyal til death._

_And beyond.'_   
  


 

Sherlock blinked- rapidly.

Not just to get control over the tears that had formed but also over his basic brain functions.

A loud ringing in his ears, shudders washing through him, again and again.

He swallowed.  
  
John stood, facing him.

Observing.

Concern.

Worry.

 

  
  
_'You...'_

Sherlock began, then stopped.

Another try.

_You love me?'_   
  


 

Now John blinked.

Taken aback.

Surprised how Sherlock still didn't see that.  
  


 

_'Yes.'_

He stated reassuringly.  
  


 

_'With...all your heart and all that you...are?'_

The detective couldn't get hold of the meaning, couldn't grasp the impact those words had on him, his life.  
  


 

_'Of course I do.'_

John replied and stepped closer.

His face a mask of wonder and concern.

Happiness.  
  


 

_'Me?'_

Sherlock whispered, voice cracking.

A tear sneaking its way down his cheek.

The taller man frowned.

Body betraying his confusion, his wonder, his awe. His relief.

Finally.

  
  
_'Only you, Sherlock._

_Took me a while to see that, but it's always been you._

_All those months._

_I tried to deceive myself, didn't want to see the truth behind those feelings._

_Feeling so...content and happy and satisfied with my life, when I had every reason to be miserable._

_I lost everything I ever thought I was or could be when that bullet hit me._

_But I was too blind to see that after I met you I gained so much more._

_I always struggled with religion, Sherlock, but I would dare to say now that you were a gift from heaven sent to me._

_You make me feel so...right...complete...as if I still have my rightful place in this world no matter how impaired I seemed to be with my limp and the nightmares, the depression.'_  
  
He tipped at his head with his finger.

Stepped even closer.  
  


_'You liked me despite all of that._

_You wanted me as your flatmate and as your companion, because you saw something in me, something more, that I myself was blind to.'_   
  


He took a deep breath.

His emotions getting the better of him.  
  


_'You are everything I could ever ask for._

_Everything I could ever need._

_You are my best friend, Sherlock, you make my life worth living once more and I will be eternally grateful to you for that.'_   
  


He took another step forward.

The distance between them closed to a few inches.  
  


_'I love you, Sherlock._

_And you must never doubt or forget that.'_

 

His voice broke.

He was crying.

 

_'I love you._

_More than I could ever put into words.'_

 

A whisper.  
  


Sherlock's lips curled into a hesitant smile.  
  


_'Oh you...'_

John murmured and put his palm against the other man's cheek.  
  
 _'You really haven't had many people in your life to tell you how much you mean to them._

_That there are people who love you.'_   
  


 

_'No.'_

Was all the reply he got.

_'You are...you are the first person to love me...like this._

_Not...family...but...romance.'_   
  


His eyes were closed.

Savouring the touch.

The warm, gentle press of fingers against his skin.  
  


 

_'Romance...'_

John muttered, a smile playing around his lips.  
  


 

_'John...'_

Sherlock suddenly gazed down into the other man's eyes intently.

_'I have never felt like this before...'_

 

He took a deep breath.

 

_'Words...words fail me trying to describe what you mean to me, John._

_I can never find an appropriate way to express the value you have in my life._

_But...'_

  
His voice a low whisper now.

As if he did not have the strength to say these words out loud.

Scared of them.

 

_'I'd be lost without you._

_I've been lost before but now even more so.  
_

_I became so dependent on your opinion, your support, your help._

_Your presence, the warmth you bring into my life, into this flat by the way you occupy it, those small touches that I can see everywhere...'_   
  


He took John's face between his big, delicate hands.

  
_'I can't possibly go on without you._

_I don't want to._

_I need you in my life._

_I need you for life._

_And I want you to know that.'_   
  


 

_'Sherlock...'_

John whispered, overwhelmed.  
  


 

_'Don't._

_Just...feel.'_

The detective said and let their foreheads touch.

They stood, breathing each other in, enjoying their presence, their union.  
  


 

_'I longed to do this all this time...'_

Sherlock whispered against John's cheek.

 

_'Just to feel you._

_That you are with me.'_

 

He inclined his head in a bittersweet smile.

_'That I am not alone.'_

 

_'Sherlock, you never have to be alone again._

_If you want to...'_   
  


 

_'I want you.'_

Sherlock blurted out and pulled his head away to look at John.

His expression just as surprised as the doctor's.

As if this was a sudden realisation.

 

  
_'So do I.'_

John replied.

And inched his face closer again, his motives clear.

 

  
_'John?'_

Sherlock stared at John's mouth.

The shorter man returning his gaze.

Seeing desire but also uncertainty in the other's eyes.  
  


 

_'Sherlock, have you...?'_   
  


 

_'No.'_   
  


 

_'Okay._

_No problem._

_No rush.'_

John stepped back a few inches to give Sherlock some room.

He didn't want to make his friend uncomfortable.

Overwhelm him.  
  


 

_'You have to teach me, John._

_All of this.'_

Sherlock gestured between them.

Implying exactly what the doctor was thinking.  
  


 

_'Okay.'_

Another whisper.

Intimate.

Another touch of fingers against cheek.  
  


 

_'We're in no hurry, Sherlock.'_   
  


 

_'No._

_But can we agree on something?'_   
  


 

_'Yes?'_

 

 

_'Honesty you said.'_

 

 

_'Yes.'_   
  


 

_'Tell me if I'm...silly._

_I don't know what is appropriate._

_What I'm expected to do...'_   
  


 

_'Shush, love._

_You know me, don't you?_

_I'll let you know, hm?'_   
  


 

_'It's just...oh god.'_

He took hold of John's hand.

Stared at their entwined fingers.

_'Why is it so hard to talk about this?_

_Emotion?'_   
  


 

_'Because it scares you._

_Us._

_It scares me just as much as you, because this is precious and foreign._

_But it's perfectly normal not to know what to do or say, Sherlock.'_   
  


 

'Is it?'  
  


 

_'Yes, love._

_I do not know it all myself._

_But we are here together-'_

 

He gave the detective's hand a squeeze.

 

_'-we'll figure it out._

_And you are right- honesty._

_No secrets because you feel ashamed or think it's inappropriate or silly to ask._

_How can you learn without asking questions?'_   
  


John shifted on his feet.  
  


_'Tell me._

_Whatever you're thinking of._

_Whatever you feel.'_   
  


 

_'I'm scared and at the same time excited and impatient._

_I want this._

_I want this with you, John, but you have to guide me._

_As you so often do.'_   
  


This earned him an endearing smile from the doctor.  
  


 

_'As long as you're at my side, nothing bad can happen._

_Together, right?'_   
  


 

_'Right._

_You and me._

_Against the world.'_   
  


 

_'Exactly, love.'_   
  


 

_'Exactly...my...'_

 

Sherlock looked at John nervously.

A little confused.

Unsure.  
  


_'...darling...?'_   
  


 

John just smiled at him in return, nodding his approval.  
  


 

_'Let me kiss you, Sherlock._

_Just once.'_   
  


 

_'Go ahead.'_

 

The detective said, an excited smirk on his face.

He took the doctor's other hand into his as well.  
  


 

_'Sherlock...'_

John looked at him mezmerized, his mouth hanging slightly open.

Licking his lips in anticipation.

This was it- this was real.  
  


 

_'I am by no means an expert, but I do think there's no more need for words, John.'_   
  


 

_'Sherlock!'_

John chuckled, amused, then- getting serious again, he trailed off.  
  


 

 _'Help me, John.'_

Sherlock finally whispered, bringing his face close to his lover's.

Their breaths mingling between their faces, their foreheads touching.  
  
Yet, it was not enough.

It was never enough.  
  


 

John closed his eyes, lost in the moment.

The detective observed and mirrored him, closing his as well. 

 

Sherlock would never be able to get over the sensation of feeling John Watson on his skin.

He had never bothered to care for human touch, albeit he knew it was enjoyable.

But he had never seen the point, never had had someone he would have allowed to get that close, trusted enough he felt the urge to touch or be touched by.

Until John...

John was different.

In so many ways.

He was better.

He made him better.  
  


 

The detective shifted.

Inching closer.

John's arms wrapped around his waist and again he mirrored the movement and pulled the doctor close. 

They both stood, arms slung around one another, inhaling each other's scent and feeling each other's pounding heart where their chests were pressed together.  
  
They both sucked in a breath at the sensation of their entire bodies aligned, their warmth and smell- so close to each other, they never wanted to let go again.  
  
Sherlock brought his head a little closer to John's face.

Their lips almost touching. 

 

_Oh, the delicious, sweet little torture of 'almosts'!_   
  


 

_'Sherlock...'_

John said his name once more.

The tension buzzing between them like static.

He didn't respond at first. 

Waited. 

Took another breath.

 

_'Is it...now...?'_   
  


 

_'Hm.'_

Was all John answered before he leaned in.


	28. Time is a curious thing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Small back surgery is done (thanks for the comments), but I'm already scheduled for 'the big one', which will be my first ever surgery with full narcotics and intubation and stuff, so I'm pretty nervous now although it'll be in a couple weeks time...
> 
> Anyway, thanks for the cheer-ups and here's the next part! ;)

 

 

 

Time is a curious thing.

How ones perception of it changes depending on the state one finds themself in.

It had been a long time since Sherlock had last experienced time to pass at such a slow pace.

He remembers it was on the day he found his father sitting at his desk in his office.

Dead.

With a gun wound to his head.  
  


It was then that he last felt time to be something so relative.

So unimportant.

Almost reachable by hand as if you could just lift your arm and drag your fingers through it like water in a fountain.  
  
Something that is there, can be observed, but not kept.  
  


He wished he could have kept this moment.

Fill it into a flask.

Store it away on the shelves of his laboratory to keep until the day he passed. 

As a reassuring presence for all those times that he lost his faith.   
  
And that had happened quite some times until now. 

When he saw his father for the last time, lying inside his coffin, as if asleep. 

Saw his mother cry, the heartbreak in her features during the service.

How lost she had looked upon that day. 

When he realised that he would never fit into the society that was considered normal.

When he gave up on the thought of another human being apart- from his brother- to actually bother asking how he was.

What he thought.

What he felt.  
  


 

He hadn't been born the cold, heartless and impolite bastard that he knew he appeared to be.

But time had had its effect on him.

He used to fight against it.

Eventually he gave up- and became a person trying to never make the mistake again to actually care for something or someone.

Because inevitably he would get hurt.

Be abandoned.

Called a 'freak'.  
  
He used to live quite good that way.

Losing himself in work and studies.

Going on and on and on, never stopping, because whenever he stopped- everything came crashing in again.  
   
And temptation and he were old acquaintances, but their collaborations never turned out well.

 

Science, Music, Memories.

Those were the only three entities that had ruled and occupied his life for a long time.  
  
Until the day that he examined paint chips from a wooden ladder in the laboratory at St.Barts and this man walked in, leaning on his cane, eagerly offering his phone to him, not knowing who he was and what he had gotten himself into the moment he reached inside his pocket.  
  
Now it was Science, Music, Memories and John.  
  
The very man he stood in front of in this moment, his arms tightly wrapped around him.

Their mouths as close as was possible without actually touching.

John's breath ghosted upon Sherlock's lips.

They were buzzing with anticipation and shivering from the adrenaline that their bodies were pumping relentlessly through their bloodstreams, from the depths of their kidneys spreading through their hearts into every little capillary vessel of their bodies.   
  


 

 _Oh, what a sweet sensation!_

Sherlock thought.  
  


 

This is when his perception of time changed again for the first time in so many years. 

The world slowed down into a slow motion of blurred colours and light.

Faint noises.

Muffled screams inside of his head.

For the first time in years.  
  
Finally.  
  


 

Everything that happened after this moment would be stored in his mind palace for the small eternity that was left of a lifetime.

The first gentle touch of John's lips on his after they had both declared their love for one another, was a feeling he would never forget.

Warm.

Soft.

Confident.

Knowing.

Experienced.

The light pull of flesh as John drew away for the fraction of a second.

Giving Sherlock time to process what was happening.

Returning.

Again, softly pressing his mouth against Sherlock's as if he could find something there, something vital and important, but fragile and tender.

The detective leaned in closer, seeking the touch, so John lightly sucked on his lower lip in response. 

The taller man exhaled loudly in surprise, then blushed.  
  


 

_'Oh, Sherlock.'_

 

John whispered, eyes round and gentle- warm.

Adoration written all over his face.

 

_'There's no need to..._

_It's lovely to know that you like it._

_Best praise in the world._

_You do like it, do you?'_

 

His forehead never lost contact with Sherlock's. 

The other man could feel the words on his lips as John spoke them, they were so close.  
  


 

_'This is so...new._

_Overwhelming._

_John, I...don't know how to do this right...'_

 

 

_'Shhhhh. My dear._

_It's alright. I know._

_I know what you are trying to tell me. I know._

_Trust me.'_   
  


 

_'I never did otherwise, John.'_   
  


 

_'And that's one of the things why I love you._

_You have no idea what that means to me._

_That you chose me to...share this with, explore this with._

_Now there's no need to be afraid,'_

 

He caressed Sherlock's cheek.

Their eyes meeting. 

 

_'we have all the time in the world._

_And no one’s telling us what to do or when._

_We can go at our own pace._

_A pace that is comfortable for both of us._

_I know how scary this feels, love, and I want us both to be able to enjoy every second of it._

_We will explore this together, alright?'_

 

His round blue eyes ever the source of reassurance.  
  


 

_'Alright.'_

 

Sherlock smiled.  
  


 

_A grin in return from the doctor._   
  
_'Jesus, Sherlock._

_Your face is just so remarkable._

_How is it possible that there is so much skin and yet your cheekbones are so prominent?_

_I have always wondered about that.'_

 

He chuckled and looked at the face in front of him- mezmerized.  
  


 

 _'I suppose my facial anatomy inevitably had to be just as extraordinary as the rest of me.'_  
 

 

_'Was that you being funny?'_

The doctor smiled.

 

_How lovely._   
  


 

_'Was it that bad?'_

 

Sherlock furrowed his brows playfully.  
  


 

_'No. Not at all._

_Just unexpected._

_It's a rare thing, you taking the time to make a funny remark._

_Except when Anderson is around of course._

_Or Sally.'_

 

  
_'John?'_   
  


 

_'Yes?'_

 

  
_'Please do not mention them again when we are just about to...are we going to have sex?'_   
  


 

_'One thing at a time, dear._

_But getting intimate- no Anderson, alright._

_Got it.'_

 

John said, tipping his head with his finger, then burst out laughing.

Sherlock managed to keep it together for a second, then joined in, because John was laughing in such a delightful manner, it would have been a crime against nature not to do so. 

It took them both some moments to calm down again.

But eventually they did.

And business got serious again.  
  



	29. A Rush of Endorphins

A rush of endorphins.

His chest heaving with deep breaths.

It hadn't even started yet, but his body was already thrumming with anticipation.

Instinctively taking over before he could even consciously grab hold of the situation.

He was a healthy human adult male, so the biology of sex was nothing unfamiliar.

Yet he dared not say it had been of any importance to him before now.

Expectedly, he had a basic understandig of his own anatomy- his first daybreak erection had occured at the age of fourteen and naturally he had been slightly upset about it.

But since he couldn't ask his father for advice anymore and his older brother Mycroft had some sort of abandoned him when he left for uni two years earlier, he had had no choice but to resolve the problem on his own.  
  


The animalistic curiosity every human inherits when it comes to pleasure naturally let him know what to do then.

The soft weight of the duvet as it lay on his groin.

The ever so light friction whenever he moved his legs.

It's an addictive sensation that drives you on for more and more and while you lose yourself inside of it completely- oblivious to time or your surroundings, your mind narrowed down to the one thing your entire body is craving for like a starved animal in bloodlust- you still retain a kind of consciousness that no other drug on the planet will grant you.

The ability to snap back to serious reality in but a few seconds only, giving you the chance to flee and survive potential danger, is a unique evolutional gift that makes the entire experience so worthwhile and precious...  
  
You get high enough on it to forget your own name as long as it lasts but not as high as to not be able to consciously nourish on every precious moment of it and to experience it with an almost vulgar intensity.  
  


His memory of this particular morning was slightly blurred.

He supposed the sensory input was to blame for that. 

All he could recall was an overwhelming joy, a wild tingling feeling low in his gut, like a thousand ants sending shivers through his entire body by the movement of their tarsi as he placed his fingers lightly onto his own skin.

And then again.

And again…

Wave after wave until he found himself in the same breath-deprived state as now- some twenty years later- only that it weren't his fingers but John's and they were resting on his cheek and not on his groin.   
  


 

 _Not yet._   
  
He thought. 

 

And another shudder raced down his spine.

He had achieved orgasm before.

Seventeen times to be precise.

Always in moments where he found himself in a state of emotional turmoil and was in need of distraction or had to shift his focus onto something...simple.

Liberating.

Soothing his overstimulated brain and reducing the noise inside of his head to static humming as he delighted in post-orgasmic bliss.

Yet he never sustained such an addiction as he did with other, more vicious drugs.

Drugs that brought a foreign rush of chemokines into his system.

Chemicals his body couldn't comprehend or his brain was unable to process.

The resulting 'nothingness' in his head as it went blank like a hardrive on overload was always a happily welcomed change to the almost constant mayhem that was his every waking moment.

Compared to them, he learned on that very first occasion, the same sensations caused by orgasm only lasted for that little amount of time until his breath slowed down, his heart rate became normal again and the adrenalin, serotonin and oxytocin vanished from his bloodstream.

Not this time though.

This was different.

John Watson as he dragged his fingertips over the skin of his cheek, down his neck-  
  
His neck! How surprisingly sensitive?  
  
\- onto his heaving chest.  
  


 

_'Dear god...'_

John whispered.

_'...thank you...'_   
  


 

Sherlock stared at him blankly.

His brain was already halfway shut down.

The most precious but at the same time tedious part of it all.

He loved the silence it spread within him, but it made him stupid all the same.

And he detested that.  
  
Fortunately, John knew him better than anyone else.

He was constantly improving his observational skills while on cases.

What he was really brilliant at though, was his almost frightening sense of understanding his flatmate.

So he spoke- so that Sherlock didn't have to.  
  


 

_'...for letting me live to see this._

_Feel this.'_

His hand moving upwards again.

He stared, wide-eyed.

Marvelled.

_'Sherlock, you've got goosebumps on your neck.'_   
  


 

A quick burst of thoughts.

The genius had never heard that one could get them in this area of the human body.

Like your wrists.

Was that even possible?

Had he missed something?

Did he need data on that?

Was he completely out of my mind??  
  
A sexually very experienced army-doctor was moments from ripping off his clothing and giving him his first thorough orgasmic experience ever and he was dwelling on goosebumps???

Sometimes the detective felt the urge to step out of his own skin and slap himself right across the face.  
  


 

_'It's obviously the effect you have on me when you do this.'_

He said with a hoarse voice and pointed to John's other hand on his left pectoral muscle.

Resting over his heart- as if trying to get a hold on it.  
  
Like he didn't already own it...  
  


 

 _'Well, if that is so- I wonder what happens when I do this.'_  
  
And with that John bowed his head, leaned in and started to lightly, ever so lightly kiss Sherlock's neck.  
  
The other man literally shivered with pleasure.  
  
John's lips might be small.

Thin compared to Sherlock's (which are ridiculously plush, thank you mother) but they were so...divine.

An adjective the detective had never dared to use before.

Not before he met John.

Did this.

Superlatives were far too overused.

But somehow only they seemed to do John appropriate justice.  
  
And now said man pressed his mouth onto Sherlock's and began to suck- only for the sweet little moment until his lips lost contact with the skin underneath and only to come back a tiny bit more to the left, to the right, up to Sherlock's ear.  
  
This is where the taller man found himself curling his toes inside of his shoes, trying to seek hold on the steady floor of their kitchen. 

The wet softness of John just below his earlobe.

Another rush of cold adrenalin spreading inside his chest.

Beautiful.  
  
Sherlock opened his mouth and moaned.

A wholehearted, ecstatic moan that encouraged John to take the lobe of Sherlock's ear between his lips and poke and lap at it with the tip of his tongue. 

The detective nearly reached orgasm right there and then.

How curious?

John, sucking on his ear, breath from his nose ghosting across over-sensitive skin, his hand resting on the crook of Sherlock's neck just below, the other one placed on the back of his head now, fingers playing with his hair.  
  
How utterly curious.  
  
And then it was John who moaned.  
  
And Sherlock lost control.  
  
Completely.

 

* * *

 

 

John's lips.

John's tongue.

John's fingers.

Everywhere.

As they stumbled backwards the detective's brain had seriously become the closest to stupid he had ever been.  
  
What a delightful change?  
  
The soldier slammed the genius against the door of his bedroom, passion getting the better of him, the handle digging into Sherlock's back. 

It hurt. 

It would certainly bruise. 

Sherlock found that he didn't care for one second.  
  


 

_'John?'_   
  


 

The shorter man 'hmmmphd' in response, mouth still eagerly attached to skin.

Trying to be some sort of human q-tip judging by the enthusiasm with which his tongue teased Sherlock's ear.

The detective made a mental note to return the favour.

Because

it.

was.

wonderful.  
  


As odd as it was.  
  


 

_'I'm sure it is in your medical interest as well as your personal to tend to possible wounds of mine. Am I right?'_   
  


 

_'Hmmph. Certainly. Why are you asking?'_

Suddenly the all concerned doctor, he regarded Sherlock closely.

Eyes snapping from Sherlock's face to his still injured shoulder, down his torso to his knee.  
  


 

_'Because I think I obtained a bruise on my back just now._

_I think it would only be appropriate for you to check on it.'_   
  


 

_'Sherl...'_

John's eyes darting back up to his face again.

_'Oh, right. Very good._

_You are trying to get me to take your shirt off._

_Well done.'_

He pecked Sherlock on the cheek with a smug smile.  
  


 

_'John?'_   
  


 

_'Right here.'_

Eyes shining with mischief.  
  


 

_'I love it when you do that, you know._

_I don't mind you doing that more often.'_   
  


 

_'Alright. Good._

_I'll take a mental note of that.'_

He leaned back in.  
  


 

_'Please don't...'_

He meant it.

What was the point of it if he did it on purpose?

Wasn't love supposed to be spontaneous?

 

_'I mean...I want you to do it whenever YOU feel like doing it._

_Not because you feel obligated to do so.'_   
  


 

The doctor caressed his cheek and looked at his tall love with a very stupid 'you are a miracle' sort of grin.  
  


 

_'You are a miracle, you know?'_

He whispered.  
  


 

Sherlock grinned just as foolishly.   
  


_Oh, let's be stupid together like this._

_If I shall ever die because of some idiotic thing I do- please let it be this!_   
  


 

_'For a man who has no idea of all of this, you are saying so really romantic things without being aware.'_

Another kiss to his cheek.

Sherlock purred and closed his eyes.

John was so good at this.  
  


 

_'You are brilliant, John Watson.'_   
  


 

_'Please call me doctor.'_

And with that said doctor started to suck on that particular point just below Sherlock's ear again.  
  


 

_'Oh...doctor._

_Tell...tell me what's wrong with me- oh!'_

His head thumped back onto the door.  
  


 

 _'You are an arrogant git.'_  
  
He let go and looked at Sherlock.

His eyes telling that he was only teasing. 

Probably. 

Probably not. 

Oh what the hell!

The detective knew it was true.

Sometimes.  
  


 

_'But you are MY arrogant git and you let me do this._

_I still can't quite believe it.'_   
  


 

Sherlock was going to have a neck entirely covered in love bites by tomorrow morning.

Something he looked forward to very much. 

Remebering seeing those marks on his classmates, unimates.

Knowing how they had obtained them. 

Pang of jealousy. 

Dismissing the feeling immediately. 

Continuing to study.

Alone.  
  


Obviously John loved to claim him.

Other people shall notice and realise that Sherlock belonged to him.

To him only.

Good.

Finally.  
  


 

_Oh, John._   
  


 

_'I surrender to you and your expertise, doctor._

_Please take care of me.'_

Sherlock whispered into John's neck.  
  


 

The other man whimpered, somewhat playfully, then devoured Sherlock's mouth again.

_'You are seriously driving me crazy, Sherlock.'_   
  


 

_'Good.'_   
  


 

_'I want you.'_   
  


 

 _'Then take me.'_  
  
The sound that he made in response, was one Sherlock would always recall in moments of doubt.

It was the sound of Dr. John Hamish Watson placing his heart into the detective's clumsy hands and taking Sherlock's into his safe ones in return.

The moment where they both realised that they would never, in their entire lifetimes, let each other go again.

Because they needed each other. 

Needed one another so much.  
  



	30. I Trust You

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's chapter 30 and I feel I have drawn this out long enough again. This is the final chapter for this part of the series. The next one will focus on domestic life and sex, so if you like it then please continue to follow ;) If not, have a satisfying ending here!

 

 

 

  
Flesh.

Human flesh.

Gloriously bare and soft and warm and...salty.

Of course Sherlock already knew that it would taste like this but still he was surprised that John would taste so very different than himself. 

Naturally, throughout the course of his life he had happened to lick his own skin.

More often so once he was a child. 

Chocolate, icing (his sweet tooth strongly developed early on). 

His own blood.

Never did it taste as delicious as this:

Manly.  
  


 

Not that he wouldn't be a man.

Or smelled like one. 

If he couldn't help it. 

But he always considered a strict body hygiene necessary- for himself at least.

John however- John could just as well never shower again for all he cared- he would lick him clean.  
  


 

In the early moments of his blossoming feelings for John he used to be startled and horrified at such desires surfacing from deep within himself.

He had never been aware that such passionate behaviour was buried underneath the layers of his own conscious. 

He supposed his never-ending curiosity added a great deal to help him finally break free of the chains that he had laid upon himself so long ago- unaware as it may have been.

And it was an epiphany of the greatest kind to finally experience this- with John at his side, as always being the sole reason for those feelings, so intense that he never seized to be overwhelmed by it.

A lifetime to spend with John Watson had become more important to him than any case could ever be.

 

 

Sitting on the edge of his double mattress, he was now in the middle of returning the sensation of nibbling on John's neck. 

It turned out the other man was just as sensitive there as he was.

Good.  
  
As John brought his hands up to open the top closed button on Sherlock's shirt, reality came crushing down onto the detective.  
  
He stilled, drawing his lips away from John's neck and swallowed hard.  
  
The doctor, in his enthusiasm and hormone addled state didn't clue in at first.  
  
It took him a few seconds of Sherlock keeping absolutely still, like a deer caught in headlights, to sense that something was not right.   
  


 

_'Oh god, no..._

_Sherlock?_

_Am I...?'_

 

He looked at his flatmate, concern and guilt written all over his face.

As if he had tried to force himself on the man.  
  


 

_'Can we...'_

Sherlock blinked rapidly.

Processing the situation.

His own fears.

_'...can we...'_

 

He was lost for words.

Desperately hoping John could see the conflict inside of him.

It was foolish.

But it felt so real.

Too real.

Too much.  
  


 

_'Okay.'_

John said and backed off a bit.

But not too much.

Not giving Sherlock the feeling that he was going to leave now that he didn't get what he wanted.  
  


_'It's alright, love._

_We'll stop here._

_That's fine.'_

He took Sherlock's hand.

_'It's all fine. Don't...'_

He brushed his thumb over the skin of the other man's palm.

_'Don't be...'_

Lost for words, he trailed off.  
  


 

And as if they had suddenly switched positions, Sherlock placed his big, warm hand on John's thigh to calm him.

Sensing that John was upset with himself.

Blaming himself.  
  


 

_'This is not your fault, John.'_

He whispered.  
  


 

The doctor looked into his eyes.

Swallowed.

_'Tell me what scares you, Sherlock.'_   
  


 

The detective thought about it.

Tried to pinpoint his unease into appropriate words.

 

_'I want this._

_And yet it terrifies me._

_The closeness._

_The vulnerability.'_   
  


 

John flinched.  
  


 

_'The concept of giving myself and my body to another person._

_Trusting another human being so completely to take care of me._

_Not to violate me._

_Not to hurt me._

_Take this from me and run off again._

_I...'_

 

  
_'You have felt this way before.'_

John realised.  
  


 

_'Not like this._

_Not...in this situation._

_Never like this, John, you are...'_   
  


 

_'Okay.'_

John's voice was thick with sudden tears.

The confession of his friend hurting him so deeply, it overwhelmed him.  
  
 _'How could they ever...'_  
  


 

 _'I don't know.'_  
  
And then there was silence.

And the mutual agreement that no one would ever hurt them like this again.  
  


 

_'I am damaged, John._

_In several different ways._

_The people of my past probably never thought ahead to realise what impact their words and actions would have on me...'_   
  


He swallowed.

Eyes turning from insecure to determined in a flash.

Shoving the painful memory into the dungeon of his mind palace he concentrated on the vision of this beautiful man sitting in the sunlight of his drawing room.  
  


_'...but they never broke me, John._

_In some ways they helped me become the man I am today and I should be grateful for that-'_   
  


 

_'You should never be grateful for getting hurt, Sherlock.'_

John interrupted.  
  


 

_'I am not._

_But I cannot ignore the fact that it gave me a different focus on life.'_   
  


 

_'That might be true, love, and I wouldn't want you to be any shade of different, but they took something from you, Sherlock, something precious._

_And I hate them for doing that.'_   
  


 

_'You can give it back to me, John.'_

 

The doctor was taken aback at that.

For a moment he couldn't grasp the meaning behind Sherlock's words.

Closed his eyes and let them sink in.

The detective let him.  
  


 

_'You trust me enough to do that.'_

John said, eyes closed.  
  


 

_'Yes, of course I do._

_Only you, John.'_

Sherlock took his hand.  
  


 

The doctor opened his eyes, his jaw working on his subsiding anger.

Several breaths later he said, eyes gentle:  
  
 _'I will do my best, Sherlock, to show you how much you mean to me._

_How much I love you and how desperately I want to give you the pleasure you have denied yourself for too long._

_The love you deserve so badly.'_   
  


He raised both hands to Sherlock's face.

The detective closed his eyes in delight, a smile on his lips.  
  


 

_'You have no concept of the emotion you trigger inside of me, John._

_Of the pleasure you give me already by sitting here with me._

_By not pushing me away...after...'_   
  


 

_'Never._

_I will never again spent a day without you, Sherlock._

_I have missed this for too long._

_Missed you.'_   
  


A silent promise.

A vow.  
  


 

_'I missed you, too.'_

Sherlock whispered, voice strained with the sudden effort not to cry.  
  


 

_'I know._

_And I'm so sorry._

_Sorry it came to this._

_Sorry we had to go through this.'_   
  


 

_'Yes._

_And no.'_

He lowered his eyes for a moment, searching for the right words.

 

_'It showed us both how much we mean to each other, John, and I wouldn't miss this-'_   
  


He peeled one of John's hands from his face and placed it over his heart.  
  


_'-for the world._

_It was worth all the pain, if this is the prize._

_You.'_   
  


 

John's lips trembled, tears filling his eyes.

He blinked rapidly.  
  


 

_'I love you, John._

_You..._

_Do you even see?_

_You are the only person I have ever loved like this, let this close...'_   
  


 

_'Sherlock...'_

The tears finally found their way to freedom.  
  


 

_'You dug my heart out from underneath layers of pretense, deception and painful memories._

_You did the impossible thing._

_You found it and you claimed it and I happily gave it to you, because I know you will take better care of it than I can do myself._

_You own it and I am bound to you forever._

_So forgive me for panicking just now, but to comprehend all this-'_  
  
He gestured at his head.  
  


_'-and this-'_   
  


Then at his heart, John's hand still covering it.  
  


_'-and this-'_   
  


His hand dropped to the flies of his trousers.  
  


_'-is too much for my brain all at once.'_

 

He chuckled, somewhat sadly.

Sad that he couldn't have it all right now.  
  


_'Body betraying me...'_   
  


 

John burst out laughing.

Tear tracks still glistening on his cheeks.  
  
He inhaled, tilting his head.  
  


 

_'I'm sorry, Sherlock, but I need to kiss you._

_Is that ok?'_

He leaned forward hesitantly, his hand firmly pressed over the detective's heart, waiting for his silent nod of approval and then pressed his mouth onto Sherlock's.  
  


Desperate.

Desperate for love.

Perfect.  
  


Sherlock cupped John's head and returned the kiss eagerly.

Trying to show his doctor with lips just how much he meant every word he had just said.  
  


 

They sat like this for several moments.

The faint, wet noises of lips losing contact, mouths diving back in and heavy breathing filling the room.  
  


 

_'I will never object to this.'_

Sherlock murmurmed between kisses.  
  


 

_'Good.'_

John replied.

_'Cause I don't plan on ever stopping.'_

He drew back a bit.

_'I mean...'_

He began, afraid he'd spooked Sherlock again.  
  


 

_'I trust you.'_

Was all the other man replied, giving him his most adorable smile before leaning in again.  
  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THANK YOU for all the lovely, encouraging, helpful comments! You are wonderful and I cannot thank you enough!  
> This has been a wonderful journey...
> 
> What started out as a single scene in my head, turned into several chapters written on vacation and into this initial gift for Atlin.
> 
> A complete newby at writing fiction I had no idea I would get such good feedback and responses.  
> YOU keep me going and have introduced me to this entire new universe where everything is possible!
> 
> I can never thank you enough.   
> Thank you Sherlock, thank you John for sticking with me and making every moment, no matter how joyful, dull, boring or terrifying so much better and worthwhile.
> 
> And thank you readers for reading, commenting and giving kudos. You have no idea how much it is appreciated...  
> Love, Vic


	31. It Continues...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For those who want to continue the journey :)

http://archiveofourown.org/works/1483876/chapters/3131410


End file.
